


The Theory of Wish Fullfillment

by heyfrenchfreudiana



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathroom Sex, Bearded Steve Rogers, Because eff canon, Car Sex, Comfort Sex, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, FU Hormones, Falling In Love, Feels, First Time, Get me to the church on time, JARVIS is an excellent midwife, Kitchen Sex, Love Confessions, Love letter to this fandom's amazing writers, Marriage Proposal, Natasha Feels, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pregnancy sex, Smut, Someone Pops the Question, Steve Feels, Steve is a giver, Tags Are Fun, The Age of Ultron is going to mess this up, These kids have a hard time using their words, Tropy trope trope, Unplanned Pregnancy, because its too hard to write him, bucky is still missing, clint makes an appearance, going into labor, lazy writer, probably, romanogers - Freeform, things go down, tony makes an appearance, what would we do without him, won't be AOU compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:04:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3318458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfrenchfreudiana/pseuds/heyfrenchfreudiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AKA 5 times Steve and Natasha had sex. </p><p>I've seen these done poorly and I've seen some that should be required Avengers fic reading. Wherever this little ditty falls on that continuum, it was at least a good way to practice because of the neat frame and set-up (5 chapters! Can't go wrong!) I feel like this is one big expression of thanks to everyone else on here who publishes so much good work (that I get to read for free!), so I can only say that it's pretty much me fangirling over all of you guys who do this so well. Putting this up is like crossing something of my bucket list, no lie.</p><p>Basically parallel to CATWS, with recognition that there are prolly some errors. Meh, it's my work. Whatever. I wanted to accomplish 1) writing 2) writing smut and feels 3)writing about a ship that I adore. I'm sure that's all in there. I'm also almost done with the whole thing so I WILL update ;)</p><p>Edit: Also known as five times and change because I can't let this story go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The first time

** **

**ETA Artwork by[AnnieMar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieMar/pseuds/AnnieMar). Amazing. I can't wrap my head around how awesome this is. **

**1**

The first time was after Steve and Natasha had been paired on a handful of missions. There had been some flirting, largely on her side, since New York, and he had largely brushed it out of his mind. Natasha flirted with everyone; it was part of her job after all. One minute she was calling him ‘soldier’ in a seductive voice and the next she was using the same tone to ask the pilot of their plane what would happen if she pushed _his_ admiral’s doorbell. Steve learned to appreciate the view but to take it with a grain of salt. She was his partner and all that mattered was that she had his back and he had hers.

It wasn’t so extraordinary or hard to believe that Natasha had come to his apartment to give him details on the next mission, somewhere in Slovenia, and had stayed for breakfast. As she cleaned up the cereal bowls on the table, she had noticed his eyes dart to her bare legs, giving her a smug sense of satisfaction. _So she might have worn shorts on purpose._ Natasha had been feeling lonely and had started fantasizing about what it might be like to have a “relationship” with the kind of guy most girls would want to be linked with anyway. Apple pie. Boy next door. All that shit. It would be like trying on a dress she’d never normally wear, she had reasoned. Dress-up. So when he had come into the kitchen, she’d slyly and suggestively smiled. She was an expert at separating physical from emotional and she had appreciated the challenge of finding different ways to make him blush. Most of all, Natasha had a sneaky feeling that he’d be a safe partner and that his moral code would prevent him from creating drama at work.

“You know, I’ve been wondering about what it’d be like to make-out with you, Rogers”. She’d smirked. _Make-out with. Make love to. Fuck_. He’d stopped in his tracks, jaw on the floor, looking nervously over his shoulder, up, down, and pretty much anywhere but her.

“Um…” he couldn’t form words. She must be joking. Again. Grain of salt.

Instead, she’d crooked her finger his way signaling him to come over.

He looked at her in question, _Are you sure?_

The game that she had decided to play suddenly felt very, very dangerous. Tenuous.

She met his eyes and nodded. She wasn’t sure. But she knew she couldn’t keep bouncing between certainty and regret. It was time to cross into no man’s land.

Steve, equally caught between lust and logic, bit the inside of his cheek and stepped forward. It was sinful to let this woman, who had been pulling on every thread of control and rightness he had built up since they’d started working together, continue without moving forward. He wanted to grab her by the waist and pull her forward, but he clung to old habits and reached for her hand. Natasha looked down at his hand, with surprise and novelty. The novelty of someone awkwardly taking her hand. Her training told her to show him, to show him the luck he would be having, to show him just what he had been dealing with. The space inside her ice cold heart that had inched toward warmth said to take the hand.

Her fingers laced with his and she met his move so that they were in front of each other, almost nose to nose. His eyes looked directly at her, into her eyes, unflinching. Suddenly, the question wasn’t _“Are you real?”_ but rather “ _can you be real with me?”_ Still biting his lip, that uncertainty and doubt stuck as a thin layer that couldn’t be scrubbed away, he held his breath and then leaned in to kiss her lips.

Natasha leaned against the kitchen counter and rested her arms on his shoulders, pulling him toward her in order to encourage a second kiss. Whereas the first had been anxious and timid, the second was braver. His lips lingered on hers and she opened her lips in invitation. Steve wholeheartedly took the bait, drawing her bottom lip in between his.

“Steve,” she smiled, with an almost painful vibration of want developing inside her, “how slow will we go?” She pushed against him, darting her tongue into between his lips. He followed her lead, kissing her back but with something holding him back.

Steve himself wasn’t entirely sure why he was cautious. The nagging thought in the back of his mind that this wasn’t real, that he was somehow being played. He felt like an asshole. Here he was, with a woman so beautiful that most wouldn’t think twice, and he was being the same awkward guy as always. He hardened in response to her body against his, in response to the damn excitement of her tongue and mouth as they almost aggressively met his own efforts.

“I…” he croaked, pulling away from her. Maybe there was still time to back out. “I just want to remember every minute of this”. It sounded stupid and when she smirked, it looked as though she was almost laughing at him. Natasha’s eyes narrowed and she pushed herself onto the countertop. Her head cocked to one side and she bit her lip before grabbing his waist and pulling him close. Suddenly he was between her thighs, those glorious thighs that he knew to be weapons, and she was kissing him again. He didn’t want to disassociate and stand in front of her robotically, and when she put his hands on her waist, he decided to succumb. _Fuck it. Consequences later,_ he rationalized.

Natasha smiled to herself when she felt him finally loosen. She found his innocence refreshing. Someone who wasn’t trying to use her or objectify her. Someone who wasn’t so wrapped up in ego that he was convinced his dick would change her. It was her turn to objectify, to demand. She had a hunch Steve would be malleable. She wrapped her legs around him, again wondering how slow she could go. He kissed her harder in response, his hands traveling to her bare legs. Natasha grabbed his shirt tightly, before intentionally brushing her lips across his chin, his throat, his Adam’s apple. She pulled his collar down slightly to kiss his collarbone, listening as his breaths grew faster.

“Nat… Natasha…” he whispered and she snuck her hands under that shirt to feel the gloriousness of his abs. His hands curled into fists on her thighs. She looked down at those fists, capable of wonderful damage and yet somehow so soft. Idle hands. Natasha paused from the kissing to lift her tank top over her head and, opening each fist gingerly, placed his hands over her black-bra-covered breasts. Steve drew in a sharp breath, surprised to be so close to something he’d only ever seen in magazines and surprised by how soft her bra was. Natasha kissed him again.

“Steve, I want you to touch me” she groaned impatiently. He nodded like a good soldier taking orders and instinctively brushed his thumbs across her nipples, which hardened through the cotton. Natasha had never been a big fan of her breasts as an erogenous zone, feeling as if they were more means to an end. Normally, she could take any attention paid to them or leave it. They were what men wanted more than what she enjoyed. And yet, his wide eyes and the way he nervously held his breath as he touched her furthered her desire. He rested his forehead on hers for a second before leaning in to kiss her again. Natasha’s legs tightened their grip around his legs, drawing him in so that she could feel his willingness and desire push against hers. She was almost certain he would be able to soon feel the wetness seeping through her underwear and jean shorts.

Natasha knew she was the captain of this ship so she moved to the button of his jeans. Steve jumped ever so slightly before kissing her harder. As she pushed his pants down to expose his underwear, his hands moved to her jeans. Natasha felt him fumble but decided against helping him, as she was much more interested in pulling him out of his boxer briefs.

“Natasha, you don’t… don’t you want…?” he swallowed. Surely she also needed and deserved the attention she was showering on him. She nodded slowly, knowingly.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Rogers, you will get your chance.”

And suddenly, she was more clothed then him, observing his hard length exposed and hanging out of his underwear. She wanted to take a picture, as it was exactly what she had expected and more.

“Steve”, she sighed appreciatively in a way that caused his face to redden slightly. “Steve, this is an award-winning cock”. And it was. Long, hard, pointing up to salute her. Just the right length that she could instantly visualize all the ways she wanted to pay her respects. Forget his fists, this was a weapon. He was going to be her undoing. Her hands traveled greedily to his shaft, causing him to stiffen.

“Natasha, this isn’t fair” he nearly whined. It boggled his mind how easily she had overpowered him. He was a fighter; he didn’t give up a fight. Even pre-serum he fought back with all he had. He was a defender. As her hands pumped him, he slacked his shoulders and sighed. He was powerless. What was his tactical strategy? He could think of a million things he wanted to do and do to her. Where to start? Which way?

As if reading his mind, Natasha guided his eyes to her by placing a hand on his cheek. “Steve. Hush. I am good at directing.”

And with that he went back in to kiss her. She slid off the counter to pull her jeans down and he stopped long enough to look down.

“Have you ever seen…?”

He swallowed and nodded, “Yeah of course. Just…” Of course he’d seen the female form before. Just not so close. Not there, waiting for him.

Natasha guided his hand to her abdomen, before slipping her underwear down. “Steve. Here.”

He nodded, his eyes diligently focused on the closeness and vulnerability. His fingers traveled through the mound of wiry red curls to her folds. He was instantly impressed by the heat as he cupped her sex. Natasha leaned against his arm, feet on tippy toes so that he was nearly lifting her up by this low, damp center. Her breath grew ragged and attention spent on his cock was suspended so that she could grab his arms for support. She groaned into his chest. Suddenly he ached to replace his hands with something more substantial and satisfying. As they kissed, his palm pressing against her clit, their bodies crashing back against the counter, Natasha buckled her knees. He followed her down to the tile floor, so that they were kneeling in front of each other. She pushed him so that he was sitting, legs shoulder-width apart, and moved to straddle him.

As he felt her position over him, again feeling that heat, he reflected again on his powerlessness. Her small dancer’s frame so close he was able to see the mole just above her right breast. She reached to guide his thickness between those folds of hot skin, into wet and tight and perfect and he just about lost his mind. He could feel a lump in his throat and _shit was he about to fucking cry?_ He wanted to laugh at himself but he stifled the urge and instead studied her face. She had a look of concentration and focus as she adjusted so that he was in as far as he could go. Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, she rocked her hips so that she was grinding her clit against him and he felt her whole body shudder. Instinctively he grabbed her hips, helping to steady her as she moved up and down.

“Natasha, I’m not going to last…” he said as their foreheads touched. She knew she wouldn’t either, she could feel the warmth of orgasm licking throughout her like wildfire. She could feel him stiffen, his grip on her hips tightening and groans escaping his lips. Her walls tensed up around him in response to her own release and it was the last straw before he let go, spilling fantastically inside her. She clung to his shirt the way she might hold the reins of a horse and all he really wanted to do was collapse, to spread his arms and legs and enjoy not being able to think straight. Instead he held her tight, a small piece of him arguing that this might never happen again and that he needed to memorize that warmth and stickiness and heat and the sound of her breath and her heart pounding against him.

They shuddered together, on pause, until it really made sense to move and take care of the fluids leaking between them to the floor. The less than glamorous side that Natasha was usually able to take care of right away, her mind slipping into the cool exterior of “this is work, let’s get this over and done with”. She found herself wanting to prolong that part, to endure the _ick_ for the part about feeling him, his arms around her, the salt of his skin, the sense that this was a man who was not only grateful but considerate ( _Lord knows, most were grateful_ ).

Again, because she was aware of her present role in guiding him through intimacy, it was Natasha who broke the spell and stood up. Out of habit and instinctive tendency to disconnect from feeling, she didn’t look at him as she grabbed her shorts and top and she didn’t acknowledge him before padding barefoot to the bathroom to wash up. In the bathroom, she had to remind herself to physically reopen the door that she had automatically closed. She didn’t want to shut him out. She didn’t want to blame the need for privacy on her own need to build walls and doors around her heart. She heard him groan in the other room and made the conscious decision to leave that door wide open, allowing him the chance if he wanted it to join her in washing up and processing what had just happened.

Steve followed her lead, a sheepish smile on his face, clutching his own pants shyly. Natasha turned on the shower and nodded him right in, smiling in return. Steve finished undressing, clothes folded neatly on the counter, choosing to do so in silence in order to afford her the privacy of understanding their intimacy in silence. This also allowed him the luxury of not spilling out all of the things going on in his own mind without filter. He was bare before her, completely naked and he watched as she followed, her clothes piling on the top of the toilet lid. He watched in awe as she pulled her hair back into a messy bun, her shoulders and neck showcasing her strength but also the beauty. He leaned in to kiss the nape of her neck.

Natasha exhaled, the tiny corners of her mouth fighting not to smile. She reached behind her and pulled him close. _This._ So normal. And loving. For that moment, it didn’t matter as much that she was also naked and bare, that he was not the only one leaping out of comfort zones. Shit, nothing mattered. Not assignments or history or orders. Not the future. Not even the stickiness between her legs that was drying fast. This wasn’t a transaction. He wasn’t a mark. This was her choice. She was the captain of her own ship too, not the KGB’s or SHIELD’s or anyone’s.

As they stepped in to the shower stall, moving to face each other, Natasha exhaled again. The warm water on her skin, the smell of plain old dial bar soap, the stillness of it all. Steve started lathering the soap on her arms and suddenly, she couldn’t hold it back anymore. Tears mixed with the cascade of the shower head as she silently wept for her own agency and reclaimed power.

“Hey…”He paused when he realized her emotion. Had he hurt her? He’d been so intentional to honor her need for emotional space. Steve looked into her eyes and pulled her close.

“It’s fine. Just fine.” She assured him. “Thank you.” Suddenly she was the one who was grateful. It was an unexpected role reversal. That tiny shred of her authentic heart, the child that still believed in love and hope, was instantly triggered. A small piece of her that hadn’t been wiped out in the Red Room or through years of intentionally forgetting her own loves and hopes and even boundaries, was bubbling to the surface. Years of indoctrination: _love is weakness, love is a construction, the ends justify the means, all that you are is a weapon…_ That little girl who believed in magic and dreams and the possibility of safety was still present. For a brief moment, Natasha allowed herself the luxury of believing that fairy tales are possible, that she wasn’t irrevocably damaged…

The water turned cold, their cue to get out. Steve led her out of the stall, pulling the towel off the shower rod and wrapping it around her tightly. He watched as she slowly quieted and withdrew into herself, her face blank. They had both been used; he knew his experiences of feeling like a circus sideshow certainly paralleled her experiences for nearly her entire life. On paper they were incompatible. She was an expert in lies and masks and being whoever she was told to be. And yet Steve related- hadn’t he also played a part, stayed on a script, done whatever was asked of him? On paper, they were opposite. He was the symbol of truth and justice and idealism. She was an expert at lies and manipulation.

“I should get started. I have a busy day…” Natasha felt herself slipping into default, her mind racing to all of the things she could be doing.

“Come here”, he countered, pulling her to the bedroom. She noticed the neatly made bed, everything in its place. His room reminded her of a hotel room, minimal adornments, tight corners, everything just so. “Natasha, let’s just wait a minute. We just…Christ, let’s just take a minute”

And so she sat with him, allowing herself to fall on to the bed with him and be held, unclothed save a towel but nonetheless cocooned by his body. It felt like walking on tightrope, to accept that extra layer of intimacy. _I’m the fucking little spoon_ , she mused to herself. And yet it was her choice, not a power struggle or display of control. It was her choice to suspend belief for just a moment.

“Natasha, I know we can’t talk about this. But…” Steve swallowed, filled with doubt. What was he getting himself in to? He wanted to touch her, to make love to her slowly, to fuck her savagely and fast, to explore every inch and see if maybe she’d explore him too. And yet he also allowed himself the brief fantasy that maybe they could have breakfast or go for a drive or see a movie. Was that even possible? What could he reasonably expect?

Natasha pulled away and looked at him, letting the towel fall. He forced his eyes to focus on hers, to actively listen to her voice. “Steve, I don’t know. I don’t do relationships. It’s not in my programming to see this as any more than great sex…”

Steve winced and she sighed, “Steve. This was amazing. I mean, I’d like to do it again. But this can’t be a relationship. We work together, we are both gone all the time. I’m a spy for fuck’s sake. I want to. But I don’t know if I can. If we can.”

Steve knew her argument made sense. He was a soldier. His life didn’t leave a lot of space for the fantasy of taking things slow, holding hands, making plans. Neither did hers. That dream had died long ago, when being Captain America and fighting the bad guys took over his identity. He knew her life was not much different. He reflected on her job, to be the silent but deadly femme fatale who used her curves to her advantage when necessary. She was gone just as much as he was. It wasn’t like they could even make those usual “couple” plans. “See you at 7 on Saturday?” Hell, he didn’t even know if he’d be called out at 7pm tonight. He resented her point, that it was probably a disaster to expect anything more. And he resented the fact that he couldn’t demand anything from her. This wasn’t the 1940’s. He couldn’t ask her to go steady. Even now, he resented her but he knew that her point was sound and logical. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to ask that of anyone, quite honestly, and so he couldn’t fault it entirely on Natasha, the deadly Black Widow.

“Steve,” she touched his cheek, “Steve, this wasn’t a mistake. I can’t even tell you how this wasn’t a mistake.” It hadn’t been. She was honest. He knew it.


	2. The second time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok. If you haven't heard "Take Me to Church" by Hozier and NOT thought about Steve and Natasha, we can't be friends. 
> 
> My shortest chapter, which I hope everyone enjoys :) Sexy times and feels. Awww yeahhh...

The second time had been a bloody mess. They’d just gotten out of a gun fight that had left them both exhausted and dirty, a mission to assist a team of chemists through a troubled border in the Middle East that had ended with the team taking sanctuary in a safe house to await extraction. Natasha had given four trembling men bottles of water and a box of granola bars that she’d fished out of one of the cupboards of the house, before moving to the bathroom to get cleaned up. Steve had been crouched in a closet and searching for matches to light a fire but he’d stopped looking long enough to stand up and follow her, wanting to make sure she’d not been critically injured.

Natasha turned on the water, which trickled out, and glanced at the cloudy mirror. She’d seen worse, she noted, as she used her moistened hands to rub away some of the grime on her face. “Clean” was probably a losing battle. Her legs were sore and she had a scratch on her cheek but she was otherwise unharmed. She looked over to see Steve standing in the doorway, observing her with interest.

“You ok, Rogers?”

He nodded but she noticed that not only was he equally grimy but also worse for wear, a large crimson stain on his left arm.

“Steve! Your arm!” She’d grabbed it and gently tapped at the blood, still wet and sticky. He looked down, feeling surprise and detached. He’d been shot and had forgotten all about it as they had rushed their people to safety. What had been important was making sure everyone was safe and unharmed, making sure that anyone who could follow them or track them had been eliminated. He was certain the serum was already knitting together any rips and so it was hard for him to emotionally connect to “ _I’ve been shot”._

Natasha grabbed a worn white towel that had been hanging on the doorknob and turned the faucet back on. “Steve, let me see”.

And so he had peeled off his suit to his waist and let her wipe down his arm, luckily only a graze that really was no big deal. But her fingers against his arm recalled the memories of that one time they had been intimate together, the time that they had both pretended to brush under the rug. She stopped dabbing at his arm when he drew in a sharp breath, his good arm pulling her close.

Here they were, standing basically in the doorway of a tiny bathroom, and Natasha felt her mind racing. The heat that exuded from his skin, the way in which they both suddenly seemed to be holding their breath. The logical next step would be to walk into the living room and await extraction. She was in battle with her own willpower, the ache deep inside her betraying her. Natasha knew that she ( _she could only speak for herself_ ) was a goner. She looked up at him, recognizing that same question that had been asked the first time. This time, it was her asking and him nodding, his eyes betraying his own need.

_Are you sure?_

Their lips crashed together, feeding off the adrenaline of the fight and a mutual need for release. Steve’s previous uncertainty was wiped away as he pushed her into the bathroom, shutting the door with his foot. He wouldn’t even allow himself to think about all of his fears and anxieties, he suddenly didn’t know how he would manage if he didn’t take her right then and there, needing the release to tension that had been building up. It was a volcano, all of the frustration, anger, uncertainty, fear, lust, need, exhilaration, and sadness that had been pent up inside since even before the serum. He felt her shudder underneath the force of his lips as he kissed her throat, and he suddenly did not give a fuck.

They stumbled against the counter, Natasha bearing down to support herself as his hands explored her body, roaming over her breasts, her ass, her thighs, his mouth never leaving her body. It was like déjà vu, the urge to wrap her legs around him and pull him close. But this time he stepped back, turning her so that she was facing the mirror, his body pressed against hers, his mouth kissing her neck as his hands fumbled with the zipper to her suit, pulling it down. She moaned as he reached between her legs, his fingers dipping inside of her. This felt different then the first time, as though he knew where to go instead of needing her guidance and encouragement. She steadied herself so as not to fall, and pushed that black suit that was like her second skin down.

“Fuck…” she whispered, hearing him push down the rest of his uniform. His skin was hot and feverish. She braced herself, glancing into the dirty mirror to watch as he looked down, positioning himself to her entrance. _Where was her innocent virgin,_ she briefly wondered while acknowledging the amazing view, his good arm holding her as he pushed inside her. She leaned back into him so that he was instantly buried inside her, his cock reaching a spot inside that was almost painful.

They cried out together and nearly fell as he shifted, fearful he would slide out because _fuck_ she was wet. She clenched around him and he knew neither would last long. Finding a rhythm, they moved against each other so that she was doing her damndest to meet his intentional thrusts. Their eyes locked in the mirror, both sensing the other’s orgasm. Steve reached around to cup her breasts, thumbs grazing her nipples, and she came undone, her legs buckling, her head hanging and hair hiding her face. Steve felt her release around him, and he was suddenly filling her with his own orgasm. It was clumsy and messy and he was certain he believed in God at that moment because this had been exactly what he needed.

They stood there in silence, panting, both looking down and neither wanting to move but both recognizing that they had no choice. They had a team of frightened men outside that were undoubtedly confused and traumatized, and extraction was on its way. Steve pulled out and Natasha handed him the towel so that he could wipe down. They didn’t say anything or look at each other, both retreating into their cocoons. Steve wanted to kiss her, to wipe the blood on her cheek. But he remembered her insistence that it could never work, her hesitancy to be intimate the last time they’d been together. He watched as she put on her best poker face, smoothing out her hair, pulling her suit back on. It was as though she was doing her best to pretend that nothing had happened. He put on his own mask, denying the sense of rejection that had been nagging him from the start.

Later, as he watched her buckle her seatbelt on the Quinjet, he resolved to quit. Making love to her, feeling her. It was all too dangerous, the potential for addiction too high. He could still feel her, for a brief second his, and he had to steel himself. She’d been right all along and he felt like a cad for taking advantage of her in the safe house. Sex without emotion. It was her weapon of choice, not his. As good as it felt, it just didn’t feel right to him. Maybe he’d never be in a relationship, with anyone. He’d already started grieving that.

Natasha wasn’t quite sure what to make of her emotions. She touched her lips as she thought of the way in which they had wonderfully fit together, like a lock and key even despite the disparity in experience and motivations. The first time, she’d felt powerful and in control but she’d also felt touched by his genuine desire to be intimate with her. Her first impression of Steve had been that he didn’t fuck, he made love. And yet, even after they’d fucked this time, without words or emotion, she’d still felt a lingering sense of intimacy that she’d been trained to suppress. _Love is weakness. Love is for children._ It was her mantra. What was it about Steve Rogers that was causing her to be so uncertain? She couldn’t put her finger on it but she silently chastised herself for over thinking things. _Sex is sex. This is nothing._ And yet the child inside her that had been neglected and abused whispered, _Natalia, this is everything._


	3. The third time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Never Have I Found" by Josh Garrels and a slow tap dance off the stage. The Russian is google so blame google (or let me know and I can fix it). 
> 
> Side note, I feel so validated- you all are totally picking up the kind of plot I was trying to push through. Tons of feels for this pair, they both deserve to be happy (with each other!) (and maybe I'd settle for Clintasha but I can't buy Steve and Sharon. I secretly hate that this is canon because ROMANOGERS). I'm thinking I will have the whole thing uploaded before March and am toying with splitting chapter 5 into 2 chapters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So most of the content behind my more salacious tags has been published now.... :)

**3**

The third time was after Fury died.

At first, Natasha had been angry. She was literally done. Done with Steve’s self-righteous bullshit, done with everyone lying to everyone but acting offended when the truth came out, done watching people die. She’d watched as they’d covered Fury with the sheet, watched as everyone teared up. And goddammit, she was done with herself for feeling. This was part of the game. People die. Fury was nothing.

Except that he had been a symbol, just as Coulson and Clint, for her. A touchstone to remind her of her new life. These three men had in different shades coaxed the humanity out of her, the parts that had been quarantined into dark spaces in her mind. She’d been a weapon, out for her prey, following orders, collecting the check. _Don’t give a fuck who it is or why._ Even when she’d had to commit atrocities [ _the hospital in Sao Paolo]_ she’d found a way to put on shamelessness and indifference as though sliding into the catsuit that gloved her body. Clint, Coulson, Fury. Men who had brought her in and given her a new life. Fury had served as the antithesis of Ivan, the lesson that harsh did not mean uncaring or without scruples (most of the time). She knew he’d played her against the Captain, not for the first time, and that he’d guarded his motives close. She’d shrugged his lies off. Assassinated. _Naturally_. Natasha watched Steve’s face darken, betraying regret and confusion and sadness. She watched Hill’s normally iron resolve falter; Fury had been her father-figure in some ways too. Wasn’t it all just bullshit? Where was the line? Love is for children? Self-deception. A fantasy. A construction fed to the masses in order to soothe everyone into falling in line.

She’d chosen to help Steve that afternoon out of self-preservation. If the Winter Soldier had come for Fury, who else was he there to hunt? She could tell that Steve was searching for meaning, for the conspiracy to cause the director of SHIELD to fall. And a piece of him maybe was hoping for self-preservation too, as he’d been the last one to speak to Fury. Natasha could see the wheels of power turning, could see the set-up for Steve to fall like the next domino in a line. It was a flashback to scenarios she’d seen play out several times over the years.

And so she’d followed him and aided him in searching for more on the killer with the metal arm. If anyone could stop him, it was Steve, right? She thought about the way in which the Soldier had hunted, not flinching to shoot through her to his target. She considered the way in which he’d killed people she’d known. Hydra’s greatest success story in that he was a complete animal. Absolute proof that emotions created weakness and fragility. If the hypothesis was true that good always wins, Steve was the world’s best shot.

It was after they’d learned about Project Insight, after she’d heard the truth from a fucking computer ( _How’s that for no heart? Man, they could be so literal_ ), and after he’d shielded her ( _again!_ ) from the explosion, that she’d concluded yet again that she was done. Done with missiles, done with being attacked, done surviving.

As he drove the truck out of New Jersey silently, considering his own thoughts to what Hydra was actively doing and what they would do very shortly, Natasha found it hard to form thoughts at all. She stared out at the dark night sky, blinking and doing her best to regulate her breathing and heart. She closed her eyes and images flashed of ballet shoes, dancing, feeling her body stretch as she practiced. Memories she hadn’t thought of in a long time and by the time she realized she was thinking at all, it was with the parallel realization that the clock had sped up, that she’d lost real time by shutting the doors inside her mind. That suddenly the truck wasn’t moving at all and Steve was touching her cheek and saying something she didn’t understand.

“Ya tot, kto vy khotite, chtoby ya, Sir” she’d answered him, her eyes glassy and unfocused, her body shivering. _I am whoever you_ _want me to be._ “Ya sdelayu vse, chto vy ot menya khotite” _I will do whatever you want me to do._

Steve didn’t want to slap her, fearing it that would be counterproductive, but he knew she was in shock, her face emotionless and tired. He stopped himself, maintaining the bit of chivalry about hitting girls and instead stroked the knuckles of her hand, not sure of the Russian falling from her lips but certain that she had been triggered by everything. Fury, the explosion, Zola. He unbuckled their seatbelts and pulled his jacket off, helping her into it and hoping that warmth would provide some comfort. Not sure what to expect, he surely hadn’t expected the Black Widow to respond by weeping.

He wanted to cry himself, if he was honest, because was it ever going to stop? But he knew that someone needed to steer and that they needed to return to DC as soon as possible. He pulled her close, helping her sit on top of the divider between driver and passenger seat. Against his better judgment, he rationalized that they certainly deserved five minutes. Even if Rumlow was able to find them, he figured he could take him. As he smoothed her hair and kissed the top of her head, letting her body quake in his arms, his thoughts turned to where they could go and who they might be able to trust. They needed a bed or a couch or even a floor and some food, as well as first aid. He thought of Sam, the vet he’d met running. He seemed the most removed of anyone Steve knew.

His eyes closed, his body feeling fatigued, and he exhaled, thankful she’d stopped trembling. A quick glance and he realized she’d dozed off, her breathing even and her face calm.

When he opened his eyes again, it was to the sound of birds chirping and the light of the early morning sun. His body stretched and he yawned, a still sleeping Natasha only shifting slightly against him. She looked like a little girl when she slept. He wondered what she’d been like as a child, before she’d been trained in lies and the bottom line. Had she played with dolls? He remembered Bucky’s sisters playing with dolls, it made sense that she might have too. He considered the way in which children see in black and white, all or nothing, and thought about the ways in which she’d lied and manipulated him since he’d known her.

Steve recognized shades of grey existed, recognized that she’d been following orders when she’d lied to him in the middle of the ocean about retrieving the data. And he understood that his own ego had gotten in the way, that he’d been sore about being in the dark. He’d felt patronized. He was the one in charge and yet it had felt like smoke and mirrors for a bigger cover. She’d lied to him, even though she was doing her job. The dark part of him wondered what else she’d been lying about. Had she used him in every way? Shouldn’t he have known better?

She stirred and he thought about their first time, when he’d seen her cry in the shower and then after, when he’d held her. He thought about that one time after they’d helped the chemists, and the way in which she’d accepted him and they’d connected, working as a team to get the job done but then also wordlessly acknowledging a mutual need for intimacy. He’d needed her then, needed to feel her, needed to feel emotionally safe, to feel loved. Natasha was damage defined, though he knew it was a secret she worked hard to hide. When he analyzed her actions over her words, there was enough hope to challenge that knee-jerk response that he wasn’t good enough or man enough to have a piece of her heart.

She’d followed orders with Fury, as she’d been trained to do for her entire life, but she’d also worked with him to find answers, to get to the camp, to find the assassin responsible for Fury’s demise. And Zola had included her in the list of threats to Hydra’s plan for chaos. Even despite her training, she was a threat against evil. Not all good but still good enough to scare the bad guys, and wasn’t that in line with one of Steve’s core values? She was a liar and a manipulator, she’d confessed that to him only hours earlier. It was how to stay alive, she’d defended. But she’d gone with him, and as he held her, he recognized that she’d put herself in a vulnerable position to do so. She was his partner and she’d gone with him as far as he wanted to go, even though it had triggered her own painful memories.

At the end of the day, Natasha had been by his side. She’d been his partner, in more ways than one, and he trusted her. His chest tightened. She had been used just as much as she did the using. It wasn’t right. And it wasn’t right for him to hold his anger against her.

She moved, waking and stretching just as he had, turning to look up at him.

“Good morning”, he gave a small smile and she smiled back, a bit sad and a bit disoriented. Her body ached from the position but her mind was clearer.

“What now?” She deferred to him, figuring he would have an idea of where they should go with the information gleaned from Zola, though she had an idea of what he would say.

“We need to go somewhere safe”, he explained. She nodded and he touched her hair, fingers brushing out a bit of the dust from the explosion. “But first, I want to apologize…”

“Steve. Don’t” She shook her head but he shifted so that they were facing each other and grabbed her hand.

“Natasha, I’m sorry. You are my partner. You did what you had to do.”

She didn’t respond, thinking about his apology. She didn’t really need it but it was nice to hear, as she could count on one hand the times someone had ever apologized to her. She nodded in acceptance, watching as he visibly relaxed as if in relief that she could extend that grace to him. It was sweet that he’d been so concerned about her and it stirred in her the same feelings she’d always stifled about Steve. He’d wanted her to accept his apology, he cared that she was hurt.

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, inhaling the smell of his skin. A combination of sweat, smoke, and something clean. She hadn’t even moved back to her previous spot before their lips were touching.

It was kind of a lost cause, once she opened her mouth and he was able to kiss her harder and with the full force of the desire he’d been feeling every time he was in the same space as her. They kissed with fever, stopping for air, and she had moved back onto his lap, her arms locked around his neck, with every intention to hold on and never let go.

He stopped kissing her long enough to glance at the windows, which had fogged up conveniently to hide what he was sure was a crime. “Natasha, we should go… What if someone sees us? What if a cop drives by…?”

She smirked, before leaning down to kiss his throat. “We helped save New York. I think we are entitled to a pass, Captain. Besides you didn’t seem so concerned about privacy in Slovenia.”

Steve nodded, kissing her again, his mind marveling at his life that he was necking with the Black Widow in a stolen truck in the middle of nowhere. She moved to straddle his lap and he groaned into her mouth, his body responding to the pressure of her against him, to the tight space they were in, to the thought that someone might see something. She used her lips to trace his chin, his throat, his collar, all the while grinding against him, teasing the lower half of his body to the point that he wasn’t quite sure he’d be able to remember his own name if she kept on. His hands caressed her legs, those amazing legs and thighs, and then he was reaching underneath her shirt. The way that Natasha’s breasts fit neatly into his hands was probably one of his favorite things, more than baseball or running or saltwater taffy or the feeling of a hot shower after a fight.

Natasha could feel the heat of orgasm approaching even just through the friction and pressure of riding him clothed. She shuddered and he kissed her, incredulous that she would get pleasure so easily, they were both fully dressed. She lifted her hair up, wishing she’d kept ponytail in her pocket for emergencies, and then slid onto the passenger side. He watched with hunger and maybe a little shock as she hurriedly slid her jeans down, before returning back to his lap. Steve hesitated only for a second to pull his cock out, feeling a bit presumptuous even though she _was_ kissing him, her fingers stroking herself as he slid forward a bit. It was cramped, sweaty, and probably the best minute of his life as she lowered herself onto him, taking him all in at once.

Natasha leaned back, _God he was in so deep_ , her spine hitting the horn of the car. The blare startled them both into nervous laughter but she didn’t move. She looked into his eyes, so dilated she could barely see blue, and closed her own. She wanted to fuck him in about ten different ways but settled for falling back against his chest, finding a rhythm that caused them both to cry out.

Steve grabbed her hips, mentally recording the sight of her pale skin, the tight red curls between her legs, even all of the scars on her abdomen. He was filled with an innate desire to possess her, to fill her completely and give her all that he had. She paused to take him in to the hilt again, rocking in order to put more pressure on her clit. The sight of it, the fact that she was so in control, was enough to make him see stars, and he was certain he wouldn’t last as long as she deserved.

“Steve, a little help…” she grunted. He met her eyes and reached down to push his thumb against her clit. She reached to hold onto the back of the seat for leverage, not losing eye contact with him.

“Natasha…I’m close…” before the words finished tumbling from his mouth, the heat and the wetness and Jesus, even the sound of her breath in his ear and the slap of her ass against his thighs was enough. She grabbed his wrist, pushing his thumb and her own fingers down, and as he was spurting inside her, he could feel her shiver and jerk, her own orgasm meeting his.

As their hearts pounded in tune, the sound of a car driving past reminded them both to keep moving.

“You have a plan?” She whispered, bringing them back to the larger issue of what they would do with all that they had discovered the night before. He touched her lips before indulging in one more quick kiss.

“I think I know a guy.”

And then she was back in her seat, pulling her pants back on. The sight of her deep in thought, the memory of her breakdown earlier, and even the keen awareness that the cab of the truck smelled distinctly of sex, was enough that he nearly suggested they run away. California. Alaska. Even the remotest town across the globe, so that no one could find them and he could spend as long as he wanted exploring every inch of her body and the places he’d longed to get to know better. Instead he turned the engine on and rolled the windows down.

His expectation that they would drive in silence was fulfilled until they had reached the outskirts of the city, when she’d reached for his hand.

“Steve, I don’t know what’s going on anymore. I…I’d very much like to have one person that I don’t have to lie to and that I know won’t lie to me. What happened with Batroc…It won’t happen again.”

It was the cleanest she’d ever felt and probably the most vulnerable admission she’d made to someone since she was a child. There had to be room for her to be who he wanted her to be, change had to be possible. She’d been raised to see trust and honesty as impossible- the truth was what you wanted to see- but maybe this was part of being on the side of good, the ability to choose the lightness of being he offered.

He squeezed her hand and nodded.


	4. The fourth time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> <3 feels and heart eyes <3 And maybe some Lumineers in the background. "Slow it Down" is a good choice. In some ways, this was one of my most favorite chapters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, probably will post on Sunday (PT).

**4**

The fourth time they'd been together, after the fall, it had been to say goodbye.  Because Bucky. Steve had to go find him. He knew what it was like to wake up and find you no longer had a home, to be lost. To feel like a stranger. Steve knew. He knew with all clarity that he had to be there to help Bucky. He owed it to him for all of the years that Bucky had been there. He owed it to him because that’s what needed to be done. Natasha had given him the file at the gravesite because this was his responsibility as much as a second chance. Had he only been stronger not to let go. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

 

He and Sam developed a plan, how to hunt someone who doesn’t realize he wants to be found. But before he could leave, he had to see Natasha. Just to check in, he reasoned. She’d be fine, of course, but a piece of him wanted to have someone to say goodbye to. Maybe all was not lost. Maybe there was still someone who would miss him.

 

So he'd appeared on her doorstep the morning before departure, a bouquet of carnations in hand. Natasha peeked through the keyhole and seen the way it distorted his features as he looked down at the flowers. She'd been packing, preparing for her own escape.

 

"Natasha" he said her name as a greeting, handing her the pink flowers with a shy smile. "They reminded me of you. The pink is kind of like that pink ballerinas wear.”

 

"They are perfect.” She accepted them with a small smile. It was sweet to think of her as a dancer instead of as a spy or an assassin or an avenger or a risk to US security. "I don't have a vase but I'm sure this milk carton will do if you'd help me by drinking what's left of it". He followed her to the kitchen and taken from her the 2 quart box of milk. As he opened it and took a gulp, he looked around. Boxes and tape and newspaper everywhere. She was going somewhere.

 

"I need to get out, Steve. All of my covers are blown", Natasha explained again, as she watched his eyes survey her living room.

 

"I get it, Natasha. Sam and I leave tomorrow to follow leads on Bucky." He should have left today, because the trail was going to freeze. It hadn't been an easy choice to wait. In the end, he had decided to wait one more day to catch her. Not the most logical decision but maybe the right one.

And then they were silent and awkward. They stood on opposite ends of the kitchenette, neither making eye contact. The elephant in the room of their inability to make their connection work logically in spite of the emotions and heat only seemed to grow larger.

 

"Be careful, Steve." she broke the silence. "This thing with Bucky. Things are complicated." Complicated being an understatement to describe how someone goes from being like your brother to nearly killing you. She knew he would figure it out and that he was going to be ok, at least physically. But having the ability to heal a broken bone didn't correlate with the soul wound of losing someone you loved, especially when you blamed yourself for the loss.

 

"Natasha..."Steve swallowed, suddenly full of resolve to tell her that he loved her, even though it was quickly waning. A thought that had been bouncing around his head for awhile, that he easily dismissed until he was right in front of her. It was like being addicted, a part of him recognized. He could say that it was a bad idea and that he needed to stay away but once he was there, the slope got slippery and she provided a high he’d never be able to find anywhere else. He wanted to tell her that it was possible, to bargain and plead. Maybe they could force it, maybe they fit after all. He wanted to tie this lose end up before he left. He wanted to have something to come home too.

 

"Isn’t it funny? The last time I was in a kitchen with you..." she scrunched up her face trying to make light of the heaviness. She'd flashed to the awkwardness in that first time as well as the way he had trusted her and cared for her even in sex.

 

Steve laughed nervously. He was glad she hadn’t asked if he remembered or not as forgetting would be impossible. It had been a game changer, least of all because it had been his first time. He hadn't stopped thinking about it, about her face as she felt pleasure and later as she had withdrawn into herself. He'd agreed to the walls she’d put up, adopting them as his own defense too.

 

"Natasha. I..." he stepped close, daring to invade her space and that invisible force field she always had around her. He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers in hers, just as he had done that first time. Natasha didn't resist, looking into his eyes instead. She'd been done for, a willing captive, upon that step forward. In her mind all was lost. That tiny piece that hadn't been wiped away, that was thirsty for all he wanted to give, pushed all of the thoughts of stepping away into the ether. She felt his palms, laced her thumb and forefinger around to feel his pulse, and saw that he was here for her. No past or future, as both were fucked and uncertain. Right now. So she leaned in to kiss his lips, a swift peck that was tender a gesture as she could muster.

 

"Natasha, I love you. I don't care if you can't return the feeling and I know it doesn't make sense but I've thought about it and I don't even care. I've loved you since I met you at the landing strip with Banner. I've loved you in every second we've spent together and in all capacities. I can't leave without telling you..." Steve took a deep breath, letting it all out, forcing himself to say what he'd been afraid to say. He braced himself for her dismissal.

 

And instead he got her lips against his, again and even in spite of his admission. She squeezed his hand and he pulled her into his arms. Her face was soft and she was open, her arms wrapping around him. He searched her eyes for the walls, but she continued kissing him, even letting a smile escape.

 

"I...don't know how to respond..." she whispered.”You trust me, right?"

 

He nodded. He knew it was hard, that she'd been programmed to use love as a weapon, as something that only existed in stories. He took her kisses as reassurance enough, holding her tight. She put up this façade for everyone of cold, robotic, unfeeling. But he knew that this was a show. Her kisses were sufficient, he convinced himself.

 

Natasha loved how he tasted. Milk and sugar and something unique to him. She wanted to take her time, to demonstrate that this time was different. But as she pressed against him, she felt her center heating up and her impatience building. She used this momentum to move into a deeper kiss, her tongue darting in between his lips.

 

"Nat.... Natasha. No more kitchens." He smirked because he was telling himself as much as her, as kissing her had always pulled at any control he thought he had. He rubbed the small of her back and kissed her back, wanting to take his time and draw things out as much as possible. She pushed her body as close as it would go into him, her feet on tiptoes. Slow. No rush.

 

Natasha's hands went to his belt buckle and he pulled away. "Kitchen..." he grunted, kissing her harder, his skin getting hot.

 

Natasha broke the embrace to pull him toward her bedroom. She looked over her shoulder at the man holding her hand, the one who was looking at her in lust and adoration and maybe something else. For a split second she thought maybe she was going to be sick, the intensity of butterflies in her stomach causing momentary confusion. _Butterflies_. _He gives me butterflies_ , she mused to herself. _I'm like a child_.

She opened the door and led him in, grateful she hadn't yet packed her bed up. Looking into his eyes, their fingers intertwined, she felt as though time had stopped. Taking a deep belly breath, she reminded herself again of the marvel that this man loved her. _I want to love him_. She considered all of their battles; all of the ways he considered her, the parts of him that reached the light she'd long thought had been snuffed out. _I want to love him._

 

Steve embraced her again, grateful for her acceptance of his confession. She had let him in more than anyone else, he knew it. She'd been his first for so many things and yet it felt like he was the first for her too, as though he'd entered a space no one else had seen. He paused to search her eyes one more time for doubt or rejection. Not finding it, he took the next step forward and picked her up, laying her on the bed. They'd been intimate and they'd fucked, but they'd never gone so wonderfully unhurried and deliberate. Laying beside her, he slid an arm underneath her head and a hand on her waist. Natasha closed her eyes and leaned into his palm.

 

"You are so perfect", he whispered before kissing her now reddened lips. "I love you "he chanted as his lips kissed hers and then her chin, her throat, her cheeks. Natasha felt herself relax as he kissed her softly, his body shifting so that she lay beneath him.

 

"Steve..." she whispered, impatient for the distance he respectfully put between them even as he positioned himself above her. He parted her jean-clad legs and moved between them, still kissing her and whispering his prayer of love for her. Her hips lifted into his waist instinctively and she started in again on his buckle. Steve paused to look down, watching as she undid his pants. It was one of the sexiest sights, watching those long fingers at work. His heart sped up and he slid his hands under her shirt, feeling the softness of her bra _(just as he had remembered!),_ the heat of her abdomen and the traces of soap and perfume causing him to tremble. Her breath hitched and fingers moved faster, pulling his zipper down so that she could reach for his hardened length. He swallowed hard, his breath heavier, and she could feel him shiver. Historically, she knew he would let her take control. He'd paused, giving her the unspoken consent to do so. But Natasha ceded, instead pushing his shirt up to trace his pectorals but going no further. Steve responded by helping her out of her own top and bra. He ached for her to touch him again, or better to rip her pants off and proceed to releasing himself fast inside her. Instead, he reminded himself that this time would be slow.

 

His mouth searched for each breast and he gently suckled each nipple, causing her to moan and buck her hips, grabbing fistfuls of blanket on both sides of his body. Feeling ready to burst, he kissed her belly and traced the line of her waistband before unbuckling her jeans. His eyes found the scar she’d showed him that marked her interaction with Bucky in Iran, and he bent to kiss that too. She lifted her hips to assist him in pulling her pants off, her mouth finding his and he felt between her legs to the wetness he knew would be there. It was the proof he needed that she was present and there with him and that he was doing it right.

 

"Steve...fuck..." she choked out his name as he slid her panties down and spread her legs. Feeling the slickness and heat of her pussy, he pushed his pants and underwear off, before making his way once again in between her thighs. _God, she is so amazing_ , his mind sputtered as he felt her legs wrap against his waist, tight and pulling him down. He positioned himself at her entrance, resting his body weight on elbows before pushing deliberately in.

 

She cried out as he fit inside her. Like a craving fulfilled. He grunted and shuddered before pulling out a little in order to set an easy rhythm.

 

"God," she whimpered. He would have said the same had he been capable of words. He could feel her clench around him, the slippery heat driving all coherent thoughts away. She arched her back and he kissed her again. Right now she was his. In this moment. His thrusts picked up speed and he pushed in as far as he could, causing her eyes to roll back. She felt like she was riding a rollercoaster, as though the nearness of climax was closer and closer and she didn't dare look down. She forced herself to exhale, unwrapping her legs in order to dig her heels into the mattress and push on his ass. He was in deep and yet she wanted deeper, as deep as possible. He kissed her again. His rhythm grew clumsy as he got closer himself, and _GodblessAmerica_ it felt almost like a deep ache inside her.

 

She scrunched up her face and held her breath as orgasm rolled through her, her brain on fire from the intensity of it all. Biting her lip, she drew her legs up, thighs pressed against him, curling into him. He felt her shudder against him. His lips hunted hers and he kissed her through her orgasm, swallowing her moans whole, feeding them into his own orgasm. Natasha clung to him, not wanting to let him go for all the tea in China, and he felt himself unable to hold back any longer. She smiled smugly as he exploded inside her, her body instinctively clenching to receive every drop he could give. He rested his head on her shoulder as his brain found its way back to his body, and she drew lazy circles on his back, soothing him down. They were both sweaty and warm, and she remembered that one of the best parts of sex with Steve had always been that wait, that period where neither moved, him still inside her. He pulled out and looked up at her, still lying between her legs, his smile sheepish.

 

"Hey", he whispered and she reached out to touch his chin. She considered his words, wondering if the last time he'd said them to a woman had been with his own mother. Would he regret them later? The thought caused emotion she'd been ignoring to slam into the forefront of her mind. He was leaving, so was she. Wasn't it just poetic to hear someone tell her he loved her and to have her believe it as they were moving apart. He grabbed her wrist and kissed her fingers and she felt another brick in her mental walls slide out. _Love_. Maybe not love but not just desire to fuck, even though that part was certainly there and important. She pushed up so that she was resting on her elbows below him, and he slid down so that he was at eye level with her chest. She wanted to give him something for what he'd just given her. A thank you at very least. An endearment that felt honest and not forced.

 

Steve knew she was trying to find the words. They'd had this conversation before. She opened her mouth and he found he couldn't bear it again. He smiled and interrupted her.

 

"You know, we've never made it this far to an actual bed before. It's a swell idea, don't you think?"

 

She raised an eyebrow, a smile on her lips. "It’s pretty nice having a pillow and cushioning."

 

He kissed her stomach. "In fact, I could stay here all day. I would even eat here."

 

She smirked. "I doubt that. You are way too clean. I can't picture you eating a bowl of cereal in bed, Steve."

 

He glanced up at her, "Well, I'm sure I could eat you.”

 

Natasha drew in a breath. _Did her sweet virgin just suggest..._ He bent down to kiss her stomach again, his tongue darting out to lick her skin gently. "I don't know if you'd like it..." she panted, teasing him back.

 

He smiled and reached between her legs to feel between her lips, his finger gently stroking the length of her pussy. "I'm sure you taste like cotton candy and pancake syrup".

 

She snorted. "Well, I'm sure that's a lie. Naturally, you'd have to check to find out..."

 

He pushed his finger gently inside, kissing her navel and pelvis. He could feel the moisture, surely a combination of fluids that caused his cock to stiffen in appreciation. She bucked her hips as his lips reached her labia and neatly trimmed red curls. He met her gaze and nodded,  "I'll be sure to let you know ma’am..."

 

Natasha held her breath, watching as he pushed her knees up and positioned himself, his feet anchored on the ground. Steve opened her lips and inhaled the scent of her arousal, of their fluid together. He hadn't ever been this close to a woman's body in this way before, though he'd certainly heard about it and even seen it in furtive Web searches for sex on his personal computer (when he was feeling especially adventurous). He marveled at the texture, fleshy and even a bit bumpy, and quickly analyzed where the best place to start would be. He flicked his tongue out to the nub at the top and noticed her thighs clamp on either side of him. _We'll start here then_ , he mused, trying out different combinations of pressure, sucking, circling with his tongue, fast, slow, over, around, funding a pattern that caused her to whimper. The taste. The salty, tartness of her flesh. Suddenly taking in as much as he could was the mission. His tongue found its way to her entrance and she yelped, sitting straight up and grabbing a fistful of his hair.

 

"Jesus...Steve…" she whispered as his tongue-fucked her. Dropping onto his knees, he lifted one leg onto his shoulders and replaced his tongue with fingers so that he could return up to suck on her clit. Still seated, Natasha was a constant stream of moans and swears that would cause his cheeks to redden if he wasn’t so focused, her hips bucking as miniature thrusts into his mouth. He thought he'd like stay all day, especially if it was this good for her. She finally stopped talking and he looked up to see her holding her breath, face scrunched up in what he knew better to be orgasm and not pain. Her body seized below him and he felt the flow of juices. Felt her clench around his fingers. Felt her orgasm slam into her, taking all of her energy and brainpower with it. She collapsed back, breathy and hot, and he kissed the insides of her thighs, softly stroking her as she returned to earth.

 

"Hey," he said for the second time as he moved back up to pull her close. She pulled his arms around her and wiggled against him, aware that he was ready to go but also aware of her own need to catch her breath and recover.

 

“It definitely tastes like cotton candy and pancake syrup” he whispered, sounding very much like the twenty-six year old he was supposed to be. She turned her head to look over her shoulder at him and reached to playfully tickle his side, causing him to grab her even tighter.

 

“Does it? I hope you won’t send me any dentist bills…” she taunted.

 

“I won’t, I promise” he chuckled. “But talk of it is making me hungry”.

 

“Pizza? Not only can I order from bed but I’d insist on eating it here too”.

 

“Sounds just fine but I would insist on paying”. His thumb traced her nipple.

 

“That’s ridic…” she started to disagree, based on principle.

 

“I know. But we could argue that this is as close to normal and dating as you and I will ever get, Natasha. I want to.” He countered her reasons with something that she knew rang true. As the day wore on, the intentions that both had for the next day would be looming. She didn’t know when she’d ever see him again, if at all. Not for the first time that day, she surrendered. She’d won on eating in bed and he took it as subtle payback that she came up to give him a side embrace while wearing his t-shirt and boyshorts when he stood in the doorway to pay a very happy delivery boy.


	5. The fifth time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did I say I would post this on Sunday PT? I meant basically Saturday night AKA ET. Because I can't wait. 
> 
> This is the chapter where you grab some popcorn, a chair, and suspend all the belief. The tropiest of tropes for this ship but I love it so much. 
> 
> Also, "La Vie en Rose" by Edith Piaf. Released in 1947 so just about the right kind of feels for these kids. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fEdf_uXjhK4

**5**

The fifth time happened later but right on time.

 

Natasha checked and double-checked her phone, just in case she’d missed a text message or a phone call or maybe that time had sped up miraculously instead of crawling minute-by-minute. She figured he was just stuck. Traffic in Santiago could be fairly described as a nightmare, especially with the TransSantiago, though she figured he would probably have taken a cab. She hadn’t ever known him to be anything other than punctual or even early but flying to a different time zone and traveling around an unfamiliar city were reasonable exceptions to “late”. She sipped at her hot tea and tried to relax her shoulders. Getting tense about this if she didn’t have the facts wouldn’t help anyone.

If she was telling the truth, she’d much prefer to have stayed at home, curled up in bed with a book or even the remote control. The Chilean dramas they showed regularly were good for her Spanish and she’d even watched a dubbed version of “Home Alone” the night before. (Title renamed “Pobre Angelito”. _Poor little angel, my ass_ , she smirked to herself.)

It was just nearly starting to feel like home, the bustling city where the language was spoken in fast sing-song tones and a history of deceit and unspeakable acts against its people had created deep wounds that bared themselves in small ways. _Don’t trust anyone. Everyone has a motive. There’s always a subtext or a conspiracy._ It was a people after Natasha’s own heart. She’d moved down with the thought to go further south, to the ends of the earth if she had to in order to feel her way through the fantasy of breaking clean and starting over. It was possible to create a new cover here, where she could easily slip into the crowd unrecognized. The natural tendency of her neighbors to speak quietly amongst themselves but to feign disinterest outright provided a wonderful illusion that she had faded away into the shadows.

She had contacted Steve, via an email address she’d created only for him (though she’d never tell him that). A message after over a month of silence to say that she wanted to see him. He’d responded within seconds. Where was she? How could he find her? She called him, slipping into a _locutorio_ internet café in Mendoza, Argentina, on a line he swore was secure and protected. They had used code names per her insistence. Even after placing the call, she’d gone into panic mode wondering if she’d been too lazy and looking over her shoulder because certainly someone would be coming to interrupt her sanctuary any minute.

The sound of his voice had been jarring, a sound she hadn’t heard since she’d left DC, because she’d forgotten the feeling of excitement when he spoke that was so big that it made her dizzy. On the bus ride home she plowed through a bag of chips, certain she was getting hypoglycemic or something, before remembering that this is what Steve did to her. Even time zones away, he was fucking with her carefully crafted defenses. He loved her. It had to be in some shape still true, she was convinced.

She’d conceded five minutes, enough time to hear the exhaustion in his voice. He didn’t reveal much information, except to say that he was unable to find the cord to his cellphone (Winter Solider still missing). She’d withheld a lot too, communicating a “things are fine” and the coordinates to the café down the street from her apartment with a date and time. And then the five minutes had gone by.

“Bonnie”, he’d said just before she hung up, “I still love you”.

Tears had pricked her eyes. Stupidest code names ever. “Brush up on your Spanish, Chuck”.

Now, waiting for him, Natasha was starting to wonder how long she should wait before she attracted attention. She grabbed her purse and then put it back down on the chair next to her. What she needed was a grip. Not for the first time, she wondered if she was looking for threats because the possibility that maybe she had found respite and that the whole world wasn't searching for a way to chew her apart was just incomprehensible. Well, just in case, she did have those knives in her boots and that pistol in her bag.

Natasha sat at the cafe and tried as hard as she could to center herself to the present moment instead of the unknown future. She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the busy city, the smell of coffee and smog, and the feel of her feet planted firmly on the ground. And when she exhaled and opened her eyes, feeling a bit calmer and a little disoriented, he was there standing on the other side of the table, waiting for her like a mirage.

"You're late" she whispered, her throat dry. He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and she noticed he was wearing that black ball cap she had bought for him in DC ( _How had he not lost it?_ )

He looked like a college fratboy on a study abroad program or on his way to the south to go snowboarding, except that his eyes betrayed weariness and too many lifetimes. A waitress squeezed in to drop a menu down. There was no doubt he was there to see her.

"Are we speaking in code?" he whispered, as he took his seat, the backpack holding his shield carefully placed within reach. Her eyes swept the room once more but she gave him the go-ahead.

"Natasha..." He sighed, exhaling a word that had been burning in the back of his throat all this time. She looked alright. Her hair was blond and loose around her shoulders in waves and she seemed to be hiding in the big black shawl wrapped around her arms, but she hadn't really changed much. He watched her check the exits. _Front door, back door, kitchen, window_. She exuded the energy of a live wire but it seemed to make sense. Being an ex - assassin and ex-SHIELD (just kidding, HYDRA) agent was reason to be cautious.

"Wanna get out of here?" She suggested it because she needed some fresh air. Cafés in Santiago were not as loud as the Starbucks she knew from the States but she was feeling over-stimulated and a little tired. Signaling the waitress back, she anxiously stood up and held out her hand.

It had been an unconscious movement, something she didn't notice until he cocked his head in her direction, an eyebrow raised. _What was he looking at? Did she have something on her face?_ As he reached for her palm, the meaning of his look clicked. Natasha Romanoff didn't hold hands in public. She didn't offer her hand unless you needed help up or it was part of a larger cover. The doubt and surprise that flashed in his eyes resonated within her. She was just as surprised as he.

"Huh," she murmured to herself. It felt like a novelty. Why did such a small gesture carry so much weight?

"Hey," he reached up to touch her cheek. "Let's get out of here then. You're thinking too hard".

He could feel his body tense up, his nerves responding to her closeness and the almost manic energy she exuded. He'd been with her for about five minutes to guess that she was unnerved by something. He wanted to take her somewhere quiet, find out what had her so jumpy, see whatever he could do to protect her and make her feel safe. She squeezed his hand and leaned into him, in a way that was decidedly intimate and normal, and they walked together out the door.

As they walked side by side on the sidewalk to her place, he noticed her relax considerably. It was a warm day with clear skies that enticed them both to look up at the palm trees that lined the path. The traffic of the city buzzed around them, horns and smog and buildings that betrayed an aesthetic imitating New York City. It reminded him very much of her. Buzzing with energy and nerves, a mixture of upper class and extreme poverty, asphalt and cement and majestic palms that provided shade and beauty.

"Did you know they make honey from the fruit of these guys?" she asked absentmindedly. He shook his head because he didn't know a lot about trees, least of all trees found in a country he never expected to visit in this lifetime. "They do, but the trees themselves are endangered".

"Maybe like us?" he wondered aloud, pulling her into an embrace, her head resting against his chest so that they were both facing forward with their eyes directed to heaven. The action, much like the hand-holding, caused Natasha to pause. What a silly thing...

"Maybe", she conceded. "But they are protected. We don’t have that. We have to protect ourselves".

"Natasha. I'll protect you." he said in her ear. It like it was obvious. Earnest. Truthful.

"I can protect myself. Maybe I should be protecting you", she retorted with a little bit of pride and stubbornness.

He snorted, not interested in a verbal spar. "Natasha, we can protect each other".

She didn't know how to respond so she pulled his hand. "Let's go. My apartment is just this way.”

When they got to her building, they passed an elderly man sitting behind a desk in a blue uniform. He tipped his head in salutation, " _Señora_ ".

" _Hola_ , Rocky" she gave a quick smile and they walked toward the stairwell.

"Doorman?" Steve asked

" _Conserje_. A good place has one." she educated him as they went in, only moving up one floor. The complex had fifteen floors but she'd chosen the first. The floor most vulnerable to break-ins but also the easiest to leave in a hurry. _Because Lord help the asshole who ever decided to break into the Black Widow’s apartment to hunt for cash or goods to fence._

Steve followed her inside, observing the tiny space and the flashes of life she'd placed around it. A few plants, a couple of mismatched throw pillows amidst largely black furniture.

“So, Santiago…” he asked as he followed her into a tiny kitchen that rivaled the one she’d had in the States. He watched as she flipped on the light switch and opened the fridge to pull out some water bottles and a basket of strawberries. He’d been so consumed over the past months with Bucky, finding Bucky, figuring things out, that he’d forgotten all about of these little moments. Watching her move, silent and intentional in everything she did. Her eyelashes, the curve of her hips, the way she looked at him that had him convinced he’d probably do whatever she wanted and do it with joy if she’d only ask. It took only seconds before he was pulling her close to kiss her, needing to taste her and connect with her as basic a need for his survival as air.

Natasha sighed into his arms, relieved. Finally. It was soft and loving and so necessary. She tried not to count in her mind the seconds she could allot herself before she stepped back. _One, two, three, four, five…_

“I like it here. They use avocado on everything.” She joked as she broke the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Steve kissed her forehead. They had a lot to discuss, probably. He wondered how much he could hold her before they slipped into their familiar patterns. What could he get away with before she retreated?

“Natasha, why did you contact me?” he asked with hesitation, hoping that the answer provided time for them to go out and walk around town or maybe even just stay home in bed.

Natasha pulled back and leaned against the fridge, feeling her legs shake. She had replayed in her mind the best way to talk to him. It was like a band-aid. _It’s gonna hurt, no matter what._

“Can I tell you in a minute?” She answered, aching to be held again. She was being evasive and he knew it. Her heart was pounding in her ears, her body thrust into fight or flight. She started rambling, “I mean… We need to talk but I need to go the bathroom, so just stay right here and…”

He had caught her stumbling around something. Natasha was off. It hadn’t been that long since they’d said goodbye in DC but she seemed like an alternate version of herself. Something about this city or the stress of the job, he wasn’t sure. He took a step back, allowing her space to smile and brush past him down the corridor to the bathroom. The door slammed and he stood, hands in pockets, with his thoughts.

Steve reflected on the situation at hand. She’d always been a runner, always careful. It wasn’t the vulnerability that bothered him, because he’d seen her be vulnerable in ways most men would die if afforded the chance to witness. He wondered if she’d been contacted by an old Red Room contact or someone else from her past. _Bucky, maybe?_ That small part of him that didn’t want to die surfaced before he pushed it down. He could hear her in the bathroom at the end of the hallway, the sound of water and opening of drawers, and thought he might go knock on the door to check. They weren’t technically partners anymore but maybe they could be, at least in some ways. She knew he loved her, respected her, would fight one hundred men or more alongside her if she asked.

As he started toward the bathroom, he stopped at the first door on his right, cracked open. He could hear the toilet flush as he pushed that door open, his thoughts wandering to ways in which she had contradicted any fears he had of inferiority.

Natasha watched as he went into the bedroom, her heart and body frozen with fear. It was all slow motion, watching him walk into the mouth of that room. She followed him, all of the emotions she’d been wrestling with over the past months overcoming her like a tidal wave.

And there he was, curious, standing in front of the crib she’d purchased at the insistence of her neighbor, an old widow named Señora Carrasco who had known something was up almost immediately. She didn’t think he’d heard her and she watched as he picked up the small blue pillow on the mattress, fingertips tracing the points of the white star sewn on, as if in trance.

“So, as it turns out,” her voice wavered as she stood in the doorway, “I’m a modern science miracle.”

When he looked at her, confused but not angry as she had anticipated, she felt another brick in the wall fall down.

“I…The doctor guesses that he was conceived about four months ago. I don’t know if that was when we said goodbye or if it was when we went to the camp. I didn’t know and I didn’t even go to the doctor until a month ago. I don’t think I believe it even now because it’s just not even possible, and I can’t even explain to anyone why... I thought about lying to you and not telling you but I swore I’d never do that again, so that’s why I called you. And I know you trust me but I am kind of freaking out because the thought of something happening when I’m by myself. Well I can bear that but I couldn’t bear something happening to… Christ, I can’t even… I don’t even know how I put this fucking thing together when half the time I just want to eat and sleep. I’m getting the best care I can find and fuck, I’m just a fucking…”

She stopped rambling when he put the pillow down and walked over to the doorframe, meeting her face to face.

“Boy…It’s a boy?” he swallowed, his eyelashes thick and pointing down, and she was choking on a sob she’d been holding back since she’d heard his voice on the phone. And he pulled her to him, held her, felt the breaking of the fetters that had been holding her down since the very beginning.

And damned if he was crying too, if they weren’t both trembling quietly. And maybe some of his own chains breaking. She had been nervous to tell him she was pregnant. She’d been on edge and paranoid about something or someone happening to the baby. _His baby. Their baby_. Not only was she not rejecting him but she had sought him out, yes because that was the decent human being thing to do, but maybe also because he was worthy. It didn’t make sense. He didn’t care.

She sighed and played with the teeth of the zipper to his hoodie, in the most vulnerable way possible, and he kissed her lips gently.

‘I don’t know what I want or what I’m asking and I’m terrified as fuck,” she sighed.

“Can I stay? Can we work on this together one piece at a time?” he met her eyes, silently communicating the pointlessness of all of her defense mechanisms. “I’d like very much to stay tonight.”

This request, not demanding anything she couldn’t give, was the answer to the question they’d been asking each other since the beginning. _Can you be real with me? Can we be real with each other?_ She nodded and kissed him again. _Yes, yes, yes._

They stood at the threshold for awhile until her back started to ache, something the doctor had said might happen (sciatica), and then she led them back to the living room sofa.

“So, can you tell me more? Who knows? What happened, Natasha?” he asked gently, pulling her to recline on him, his arm over her shoulder. And so she told him, repeating much of what she’d stammered out earlier. She’d thought she had the flu or something and had gone in for cipro.

“It was hard because I had to find a doctor that I didn’t think would be a problem”, she explained, describing the short old lady who worked outside of town in a clinic at the base of the Andes mountains.

Natasha remembered hearing the test results. It was a mistake, obviously, though she couldn't explain that without revealing too much. The old lady had squinted behind thick glasses and smiled. In a country where divorce had only been legalized just recently and abortion still illegal, it wasn't the first time a young woman had said it was medically impossible. _How hard was it for these kids to use condoms?_ She wisely refrained from asking Natasha where her husband was, a question Natasha would get later and often from nurses, other patients in the waiting room, the pharmacist, and Señora Carrasco. Even when she showed Natasha the ultrasound, pointing out the sac and the growing fetus, even when Natasha heard the sound of the heart that sounded like a train at full speed, Natasha had searched for reasons to deny it.

The Red Room had taken everything. _Every little thing._ What they hadn't confiscated, they'd reshaped into a weapon. She was responsible for taking away lives and at best maybe saving a few, but certainly not creating one. The possibility that she’d been gifted with this life inside her, visual proof of the way in which she had joined with Steve, partnered with him, fought with him, fucked him, and especially made love to him. If there was any truth to it at all, how long would she be permitted to enjoy and delight in it before it was taken away?

Steve listened with his own measure of disbelief. All of his life, there'd been measures of things he'd had to let go of. His parents, his health, Bucky, Peggy, his own dreams, even Natasha. How long had they been playing this game of " _we aren't going to do this because we can’t_ "? His entire identity was wrapped up in doing the right thing, doing what his mother would have wanted, what was right by his country, what the world needed. His questions paralleled hers.

"Can I see?" he asked, and at first she didn't understand the question. She pulled back to look at him, unsure, but his eyes directed her to her belly.

Natasha stood and pulled the shawl away. Eye level to her stomach, Steve held his breath as he searched her frame for proof. The swell of her stomach was only slightly noticeable, a small rise that could have easily been mistaken for truly letting herself go. He knew better.

"It’s...you can hardly tell." he murmured, fascinated.

"Well, the Internet says he's about the size of a cantaloupe." Natasha explained, allowing herself to smile. The desire for _normal_ overcame her. _This is what a normal couple does. I get to have this._ He pulled her close, his eyes on hers, and pressed his ear against her as if checking for sounds. The tenderness of it all and she was breathless.

“Ya lyublyu tebya vsey dushoy. Ya lyublyu tebya vsem serdtsem."

 _I love you with all my heart. I love you with all my soul._ The words had tumbled out, finally free, and she couldn’t pull them back in. She didn’t want to, knew he’d believe her and would treasure them. A first for everything.

He looked up into her eyes, pools of watery green that betrayed a neediness he had never noticed before, perhaps because he’d been caught up in his own head games. He supposed it had always been there, lurking under the surface, even when she projected a cold heart that took what it wanted and shrugged off the consequences.

“Natasha Romanoff. _Natalia Alianovna Romanova_. I am 95 years old. I have lost everything. If Jesus Christ himself told me today that I would be as in love with anyone as I am with you, let alone that you would be pregnant and that you love me back? I would have laughed or probably escorted him to the nearest hospital to get checked out. This…”he reached under her shirt to feel her skin. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this kind of chance but I will never leave you as long as you let me stay”.

And for the first time since she was about five, Natasha chose to believe every word that came from a man’s lips. She leaned into him and he lifted her shirt higher, kissing her belly with reverence. She felt limp under his lips, her entire being opened and receptive to all that he had to give. He pulled her down so that she was straddling his lap. They kissed slowly, taking time, until both felt the impatience that had always come with igniting that particular spark.

Natasha’s body ached for him. His hands traveled up to her breasts, which had swelled and grown sensitive, something that caused her to draw in a sharp breath. He stopped, looking at her in question.

“It just hurts a little…”she explained, not mentioning that she’d hardly been able to wear a bra because her nipples felt twinges of pain at the littlest things lately. She took her shirt and bra off, allowing him to see the way in which her hijacked form had begun to change. And so he gently cupped and kissed her breasts again, this time stopping to check in with her from time to time because _Lord he’d missed this_.

She shifted, the pressure of his cock against her, the heat of her own desire uncurling itself. Her libido had been caged in for months, partly because of the morning sickness and exhaustion and partly because she’d been hiding out. As his lips stamped their ownership over her skin, she recognized that it had also been out of a loyalty and dependency that made her a little uncomfortable. He was the only one who had ever touched her with her own pleasure in mind, it had always been that way. Love that was selfish and giving and considerate and patient to her own rigidity.

“Natasha,” he spoke with all seriousness and a directness that she would never admit needing, “I plan to make love to you.”

She held her breath as he slid her off of his lap so that she was standing and kissed her belly, hands sliding her yoga pants down (all she wanted to wear lately). He kissed her hips, traced the belt of her underwear, and she found she couldn’t breathe, wanted more and faster.

“Steve…don’t tease…”she whimpered and he obeyed, pulling her panties down too, so that she was bear before him. He felt the wetness between her legs and watched as she gave him an easy smile, because he had found the place she loved so much. Her hands gripped his shoulders as he manipulated her, providing just the right amount of delicious pressure to her clit, and he had to stop because he’d finish right then just watching her. She sensed this, leaning in to kiss him, and helping him out of his shirt and then his pants and briefs, her eyes not leaving his.

“What’s the best way? I don’t want to hurt…” he swallowed, parched. She shrugged because she didn’t know either.

“We can always find out as we go…Steve, I need you inside me.” She urged, nearly begging, moving to straddle him.

It was the go-ahead he needed. He stood up and scooped her into his arms because they probably would do better with a bed even despite their history of sex in inconvenient places. She playfully kicked her legs as he found his way to the back room, crossing his fingers he would find at least a mattress. He felt a little like a caveman and hoped only briefly that she wouldn’t hold it against him. The back room, dark and cool, felt like paradise to him as he lay her down gently over the bed. She smiled at him, peaceful and calm, and his heart jumped. She was calm because he was there.

Sitting beside her, his hands reached for her hips, pulling her onto his lap. It was the best view, his favorite view, he told himself as she positioned herself, ensuring that he filled her. She steadied herself, taking deep breaths and exhales as the heat of it all threatened to overcome her. She wanted to be as regulated as possible because this was not the time for doubt or fear. He smelled like soap, clean, something she longed for, and she wanted to take all of him in. Her veins buzzed, the tips of her hair to the tips of her toes as she found the rhythm she’d been looking for. And he met that rhythm, his hips rising to meet her, his heart rate and breath matching hers.

He reached up to touch her cheek again and she moved to kiss those hands that had held her so well. _Perfection_. He looked at her with adoration, awe, gratitude, and she leaned down to meet his lips with hers, telling him how much she adored him right back by the intensity and deliberation of her kisses, her tongue teasing his.

She rested her head against his shoulder as her body rocked, finding just the right combination of his cock inside her and her clit rubbing down against him, and then she was crying out into his skin. All plans to breathe and stay on the ground were slashed as she felt herself untether, her mind floating up and her mouth betraying her with sounds she didn’t recognize. She heard him distantly soothing her, the vibration of his voice causing her heart to stir. _I’ve got you. I love you. I’ve got you, Natasha._

Her mind registered that he was still hard inside her, his hands tracing her spine, his mouth offering patient kisses on her dampened hairline.

“Your turn” she passed him the smile that she knew would cause his face to burn. His face flashed that adorably uncertain virgin she loved, before he nodded. She clenched the walls of her pussy around him, as if to communicate via morse code that she wasn’t finished either.

“How do you want me, Rogers.” She whispered, bucking her hips slowly, and he drew in a sharp breath. _God_ , all of the things he wanted to do. Pandora’s box. Everything. She licked her lips, causing him to jerk inside her. He wanted _everything_. Clutching her waist with one hand, he moved so that she was below him. Truth be told, she could do whatever she wanted and he would follow. He considered the swell of her stomach and moved behind her.

She gasped as he kissed her shoulders, her neck, her spine, his hands stroking whatever he could find. He lifted her leg slightly in order to provide more access and she spread herself open, helping him into her. It wasn’t as deep as she liked but the heat of it all caused her to shudder. Her hand gripped his hip as he thrust inside, and he grunted, one arm grabbing a breast as if to hold on while the other drew circles around her clit. His breath was hot on her neck and she found herself at his mercy, her body a constellation of nerves on fire.

He could feel her tremble, feel her grip get tighter and breath more erratic. She twisted her body, leaning back to kiss him, and he held tight, not wanting to lose any ground.

“I love you inside me… You are the only one… I love you…” she said in between whimpers and gasps for air and then leaned in to bite his lip. His body tensed as he found release inside her, his entire body pulsating. His head found home in her neck as he struggled for air, his mind briefly going to flashbacks of asthma attacks he’d suffered as a kid.

Natasha turned to face him, her face flushed and wet, her eyes glassy.

“Stay.” she whispered. He pulled her against him and gave her a quick peck. He couldn’t imagine leaving.

“So, when do you feel the baby kick?” he asked, suddenly wondering if they had caused any damage.

“Well, I’ve felt flutters but I can’t tell for sure. I don’t think for another week or so at least. The mommy sites say everyone is different”. She smiled because _God_ , she adored him. His fingers grazed her belly again and she let a giggle loose. This is what Steve Rogers did to her, reducing her to giggles and butterflies.

“How long can you stay?” She wondered lazily. She knew it couldn’t be long, probably not for either of them realistically. Her chest begin to ache as her thoughts started snowballing and she started imaging how it would work to raise a child in their line of work.

“Hush”, he whispered, kissing her shoulder. “I imagine I can stay another night or so before someone finds out. I’m surprised Barton hasn’t already knocked on your door.”

She gave a rueful smile, “He knows I needed space…”

They lay in silence for awhile, fingers linked, before her stomach growled and she recognized it was probably time to give in to the demands of growing someone. “I need to eat. Come to the kitchen with me?”

He followed and they picked at the long-forgotten strawberries before she went back to the fridge to pull out some cheese. He watched her naked form, memorizing the curves and lighting of the woman who claimed to be his. He considered all of the things he’d lost and the things he’d been chasing his entire life. And here she was, in one way or another, his.

“Maybe we should find a way to hide out” he blurted. She shut the fridge door, cheese in hand, and glanced at him with eyebrows raised.

“Steve, this is your life…”

“I know. But I’m not sure… I mean, SHIELD is down. Bucky is down. I can’t find him. And this changes everything, don’t you think?” he motioned to her belly. She looked down, her free hand instantly moving in vain to hide it.

Her heart raced. There was no way it would ever work. He would go crazy trying to do a day job. So would she.

“The South?” He stood and grabbed her hand. “Natasha, the South. It’s sparse down there. At least until the baby is born, maybe even until the baby can walk or something…”

“Like walking would protect him…”she rolled her eyes. He steered her chin so that she was looking into his eyes.

“Natasha. I’m just asking for a break. We deserve a break. Time to figure out what we want to do. We can take it little by little.”

Her fantasies went on overdrive, imagining them bundled up in one of the small fishing towns where everyone knew everyone. What could they do, open up a storefront to sell jam? She considered the luxury of a routine with Steve, breakfast and lunch and dinner and lazy walks around town.

“You’d have to grow a beard….” She offered, wheels turning in her head. It was worth a shot, at least for the next few months. “And we should stockpile on weapons probably”.

He exhaled the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. It was a piece of the dream he’d had for most of his life. She placed his hand over her heart. It was what she needed too. _Clean. Normal. Following each other instead of the orders of whoever was in power._

“We’ve spent our entire lives anticipating, guessing, obeying. I signed up to serve my country. Even if I’m not done and even if you live and breathe this work, we deserve a break.”

“Steve, I’m afraid. How many times have you or I built something to have it knocked down?” she countered his earnest argument weakly.

“We deserve to at least try. I’m not letting this go.” His eyes betrayed stubbornness she’d seen flashes of in their battles.

“I’m not letting it go either.” She relented, “Do you know what it’s like to hold your breath because there is always someone or something? There’s always a cost. I’ve been drowning since I was a child. But this… You’re right. This is our chance. For however long we have it, I want to take it.”

He held her close, his throat burning from tears he was fighting to hold back. _Finally,_ his mind repeated over and over again and he leaned in to nuzzle the spot between her neck and her shoulder. Natasha held him tight, her own heart singing because she was free.

“Did you ever hear of Pablo Neruda?” She whispered, He shook his head because of course he hadn’t. She shrugged and recited lines from the Chilean poet, lines she had memorized in her solitary exile,

_“But I love your feet, only because they walked, upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me”._

She spoke them softly and with truth, confirmation that he was enough, that he was what she needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To start, I so enjoyed this whole process. I have some ideas for "what now?" but am also fiddling with an AU. Writing has been addicting :) 
> 
> Second and again, long slow clap again to all of you who write. There is seriously some amazing and beautiful Avengers fanfiction. Anyone who says that fanfiction isn't fiction can go suck it. 
> 
> Thirdly, I wanted to honor the valid point that sometimes Natasha's infertility needs to be recognized. Part of fanfiction is working through things and there are some good fics out there that work with Romanogers and Clintasha that also work through Natasha's womanhood without "love+marriage= baby". The parallel works for the idea that through incredible trauma, there is also something really healing and inspiring about becoming a mother and I think a lot can also be explored in this (and also what it means for Steve to be a father).


	6. All other times after are just gravy...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had a moment of inspiration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired by something I heard (in church of all places, ok), about love and thought it fit well here. I feel a little like Steve comes off as Mary Sue (Gary Sue? Right?) because he is just so sweet and in love but I couldn't help it.

Natasha stared in the mirror and huffed. Leaning in, she could see where a pimple was threatening to rise, angry and red. _Acne_. Natasha didn’t get acne. Not even when she was a teenager.

_Being pregnant is fucking ridiculous._

She stepped back and pulled her hair into a ponytail, glancing at the darker roots that were threatening to peek forward. The temptation was there, to just let her roots grow out. She considered the other things that she had sacrificed- shaving her legs, maintaining her bikini area, painting her toenails, and wearing anything that wasn’t sweats and those thick wool socks people bought for ski boots. Honestly though, Chile was fucking cold in the winter, something she hadn’t considered when she was deciding where to flee. She and Steve had hemmed and hawed over moving South but had eventually decided to just go towards North to Los Andes instead, in order to stay next to the doctor. Besides, the closer they were to Santiago and a major airport, the better.

So maybe one good reason that she’d chosen warmth over style had to do with the fact that it was snowing in August. It was something she felt she should have acclimated to easier than she had, because she’d been in snow before. Hell, she’d grown up in snow. She felt her stomach rumble, movement rippling across her middle as though she had an eel floating around inside. The baby, a miniature space heater, had done his part to make sure she wasn’t cold either. She raised her eye and smiled, patting the lump pushing through her.

“I know. Stop obsessing and do something productive” she said out loud, to herself as much as to the baby. “You are probably hungry, _Zhuchok_. Me too.”

As she padded toward the kitchen, she considered what to attempt to make for dinner. She’d picked up a recipe from one of the nurses at the doctor’s office for _cazuela_ , a Chilean chicken stew that seemed simple and hearty enough. Steve, downstairs helping one of their neighbors move out, would be pretty easy to please. How did the refrain go? _The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach_. She had only mastered a few things, because domesticity had never been a skill the Red Room promoted and she’d always done fine with basics like sandwiches, salads, and her microwave. Now, a month and change into their operation as a legitimate couple that was trying to start over and go off the grid, learning how to cook had become a priority.

He was always intentional to go for seconds and to say thank you as they finished up. Which was good because her moods were unpredictable and she wasn’t sure whether or not complaints would earn him a punch in the gut or the sounds of her sobbing in the bathroom with the door locked. Being emotionally labile was another thing that pissed her off. She felt melodramatic and out of control, two things that Natasha hated about other women. It was embarrassing and disorienting because it was so far from who she was. The Black Widow was calculating and deadly. She was grateful no one besides Steve that knew her could see her in this state as this kind of weakness could be a liability.

She started pulling out the ingredients for her soup. _Carrots. Ears of corn. Chicken. Potatoes. Rice. Butternut Squash._ The baby shifted and stretched and she calculated how much he’d let her do before she needed to pee again. She filled a pot with water before getting a knife from one of the kitchen drawers so that she could start cutting, humming softly to herself.

She looked over her shoulder as the doorknob to their apartment jiggled and her hand clenched the knife handle tighter. Per her insistence, they had made sure to spend more on getting good kitchen knives. Her grip relaxed when she saw Steve making his way inside.

“Hey”, he nodded, rubbing his hands together for warmth. She nodded back, taking quiet note of the fact that he was wearing the dark blue scarf that Señora Carrasco had knitted for him before they’d left Santiago. _Maybe he could pass for Canadian or German or something not American,_ she mused as she turned back to continue cutting up the vegetables. Even though he’d grown the beard she’d asked for, he sucked at blending in, probably in part because he was so good at being kind and friendly and people remembered that. She heard his footsteps behind her and smiled, internally planning a cover for his cover.

Steve folded his arms and leaned against the wall, watching as she cut of carrots and potatoes. _Goodnight, she was lovely._ With her back to him, he barely could even tell that she was so far along. It felt like a secret, something that only they knew about. He remembered the first time he had felt the baby move, a delightful thump against his palm. He’d started pushing back, imagining that he and his son were playing a game. Natasha rolled her eyes but he noticed that she had started putting his hands on her belly, inviting him to share that space with her. It filled him with pride. She loved him and this was the very visual reminder that she was his. Not for the first time, he wished that he could share the sight of her. What would his Ma say? Or Bucky? Natasha reached into the cupboard to grab a few spice jars and he smiled to himself. _She’d say you’ve done just fine._

He moved behind her, arms lacing around her middle because his heart felt just so heavy that he didn’t think he could breathe. Natasha sighed and leaned back against him. _Home._

“What is this going to be?” He asked, his hands reaching to cover hers even over the knife handle. She didn’t expect to enjoy and even crave the way he invaded her space as much as he did. He pushed down on the handle with her as she sliced the potatoes in half and the intimacy of it all stirred her body awake. Suddenly she was very much aware of his hands, so much bigger than hers, the way his solid body supported her, the feel of his breath against her neck. He leaned down to kiss her nape and she had to set the knife down before someone ended up needing stitches or more.

“Soup” she announced, her voice more rasps than anything else. His hands moved to her waist and she pushed back against him, feeling his body respond in a way that gave her a sense of victory. A tiny part of her wondered how interested he could possibly be when she felt as big as a house, as though maybe he was responding out of pity. _Men only have one on-switch_ , she could remember being told as a girl. _Men are very simple that way_. It was an absurd thought and she knew it but even when she managed to convince herself of that, the idea of it lurked, cutting her down without mercy.

“I like soup”. He mumbled as his lips traveled across the back of her neck and his hands reached under her sweatshirt to her skin. She whimpered, suddenly not caring about his motivations as much as her own need to be filled with him, to feel his skin on hers. Her heart sped and she was pretty sure she wasn’t breathing as he reached into her pants, dividing his attention between a breast and her pussy. As his fingers wandered to the space between her swollen lips, she found herself saying prayers of thanks that he was ambidextrous. Her head lolled on his shoulders, her neck no longer capable of holding something as heavy as her head up. As he gently invaded her, a finger slowly teasing her open, she reached behind to grab at his sweater.

“Bed?” he suggested. He could feel her getting close, her body trembling against his. She’d been so much more sensitive lately, her body on fire at the simplest things. It was something he accepted greedily, willingly. Her breath quickened as he stroked her clit and she shook her head.

“Too far.” The bed felt like miles away. Much longer than she had any patience for.

He pulled his hands out and moved to push the waistband of her pants down, considering the benefits of taking her there. Natasha moaned and whimpered, wanting him to hurry up.

“I need you inside me now…” It came out as an order, causing him to smirk. He carefully considered her recent mood swings and decided to risk disobedience. Kneeling below her, he forced her bare legs apart and planted kisses along the small of her back, her ass, her thighs. She instinctively started to squat down as if kneeling along with him. He pushed her back up so that she was standing, leaning against the counter.

“Steve…”she protested but he watched as she gripped the counter tighter and spread her legs just a little wider. She wasn’t fooling anyone. He gently spread her open, his fingers searching for the places he knew would cause her to scream, as he continued kissing her skin, kissing everywhere, intentional to avoid what he knew she was praying for.

Natasha knew he was playing a game with her, could tell that he was drawing things out. She reached down to push his hand harder against her in attempt to release some of pressure building up. She felt like a tea kettle, just about ready to sing if only he would do what she wanted. He stretched her open with his fingers and she started begging.

He resisted her pleas and she leaned back to grip his hair with the hand that had been holding on for dear life. He looked up to see her face, caught between pleasure and frustration, before swooping down to tentatively replace his tongue with his fingers.

She cried out because oh, the sight of her balancing on him, riding his face as he held her. She couldn’t be held responsible for things like balance or what it must look like to see a bloated ex-spy face-fucking one of America’s treasures. _The beard doesn’t make as much difference as I had thought it would_ , she wondered to herself, a slight tickle that sent occasional shivers through her spine. He moved over so that his back was leaning against the cupboards, granting better access to her clit, and she grabbed his hair tighter, needing more and yet wondering if she would be cutting off his air supply as she ground herself into him. She could hear him, small gasps and wordless murmurs of appreciation. And then pleasure, surging through her and her legs were wobbling, threatening to collapse. He maintained his rhythm as she lost her mind, his hands still supporting her through the aftershocks, until her hands found their way back to the counter clumsily.

He playfully nipped at her legs and she marveled at his nerves of steel, because surely he must be nearly in pain at this point. She could hear the zipper of his jeans, a sound that caused her to tingle and shiver in expectation. Just like Pavlov’s dog, knowing that only good things would come from that sound, she stepped back from the counter.

“Come here” he whispered and moved so that he was on his knees. His eyes betrayed the mischief and delight of having her, of taking her in _their_ kitchen, in _their_ home, and she couldn’t help laughing.

“Me? You come here.” She motioned him over, feeling playful herself. He growled and stood up to slide his pants and underwear down. As he shedded his pants, she considered the possibilities. His cock was ready to go and she was sure he was about to start leaking. Much as she hated watching that go to waste, much as she wanted to take him in her mouth and repay the favor, her body’s desires won out. She kept eye contact with him but moved backwards until she hit the couch in their living room. He followed, downright predatorial. She raised her eyebrows and smirked.

And then he had her, bending her over the sofa, his teeth grazing her shoulder blade as he pushed inside her. The pressure of her belly against the soft leather of their living room furniture was too much and so she pushed herself back so that she was resting on elbows as he filled her.

“Natasha, you make me crazy.” His lips burned those words and more into her skin as he made love to her, in slow and careful thrusts. She wondered why he was so slow today, why she couldn’t get him to slam into her in the way that she needed.

“Steve, harder” she bucked her hips against him, her legs spreading to increase his depth. He gripped her in response, and she was crying into the cushions. She could feel the build-up, knew the change in pace that signaled how close he was, and she was doing all she could to tell him that she wanted it all, everything. In how her walls gripped him, in how she pushed in, in the way she looked over her shoulder to meet his eyes, dark and focused.

His cheek rested on her spine as he finished and it was hot and messy and delicious. Natasha could feel the baby, suddenly very wide awake as they caught their breath and he pulled out. All of those winter layers and she suddenly felt overheated.

“Hot”, she sighed and pulled her top off, turning to kiss him.

“Shower?” He pulled her close. She nodded and helped him out of his sweater before leading him into the bathroom. They shared the stall wordlessly and then he helped her out, wrapping a towel tightly around her.

As she pulled her clothes back on, she again reflected on all the ways her body was changing. She debated on whether or not to put a bra on, because she needed the support for breasts that were bigger than anything she’d ever imagined having, but she also wanted to lose the extra elastic and straps.

“Your belly button…”Steve gave her a curious look. She glanced down to see that it was starting to push out.

“ Really?” she groaned in frustration. Another reminder of how much unlike herself she was in this whole thing.

“It reminds me of that thermometer they put in turkeys to tell you when the turkey is ready” he said, amusement thick in his voice. She shot him a dangerous glare.

“Did you just compare me to a turkey, Rogers?”

He swallowed, smile changing so that he could stammer and do damage control. “Natasha, I didn’t mean anything by it…”

“Are you sure? Because I’ve got those vegetables in the kitchen. I could send you to the store for some pie.” She said between clenched teeth, putting her sweatshirt back on, stuffing the knot in her throat down. _Goddammit, this is not reasonable,_ she bit her lip, angry at herself for being so weak and easily irritated.

She turned toward the kitchen, leaving him feeling awkward, uncertain, and amazed by how fast she could change her emotions. He pulled his own clothes back on before following her to the kitchen where she was angrily chopping chicken. The sharp _thwack_ of the kitchen knife echoed in the room.

“Natasha, I’m sorry…”he apologized.

“Steve, what are we even doing?” She interrupted him, her voice an unsteady mixture of anger and something else. The question alluded to something she hadn’t brought up in a while. Panic gripped his chest. Walls and boundaries and running away.

“Natasha… don’t….”he started but she kept going.

“I mean. I feel like I’ve lost something and you are winning.” She set the knife down and started putting everything into the pot, a manic energy flowing through her and filling the room.

“What? Natasha…”

“Steve, look at me. This feels like I’ve been stripped. _Compromised._ You can go back and no one would ever have to know. Can you imagine if someone found me like this? I’m a walking target.” She stopped long enough to push the tears that had risen up back down again. “Not even walk. Waddle. I’m a fucking waddling target.”

“Hey,” he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her waist.”Natasha, I can’t imagine it.”

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Ugh. I’m not even the Black Widow anymore.”

“No?” his brow furrowed in concern and empathy. He considered how lost and lonely he had felt when his identity as Steve Rogers was discarded. There had to be a measure of disorientation and confusion. He’d consented to the serum, to serving and following orders. The baby hadn’t been planned.

“Natasha,” he squeezed her tighter, “I love you for more than for who you are as a spy.”

“I know,” she relaxed her shoulders, conceding with a measure of sadness in her heart. “I know. I just don’t feel like myself anymore.”

He pulled her to the table, where she reluctantly agreed to sit. Sitting across from her, he pulled her feet onto his lap.

“Natasha, you are so much more than the Black Widow.” He rubbed his thumbs over the tops of her feet as he said it, praying he could send her confidence and trust through osmosis. “And I am in love with you to a certifiably unhealthy degree so I’m pretty sure you aren’t harmless. If you ever left, I doubt I’d last long.”

She snorted, “That’s really probably not good.”

“I know. See? Samson had to lose his hair. I’m pretty sure you could get away with more damage using less energy.”

“I don’t think I should ever be in charge of cutting your hair”, she sniffled. He could feel her relent, causing the tension in the air to lift. He exhaled and rubbed her heels.

“Natasha, I love you for more than how you look or how deadly and cold and fierce you are.”

She knew it was true but couldn’t shake the nerves. The weight around her middle shifted so that she felt lopsided and she ran a hand over her belly. They sat in silence, her caressing the warm lump of their child and him caressing her feet. It was a tender moment and she realized she’d had more and more of those over the past few months.

“I know I’ve done nothing to help your current perception that you are a waddling bird” he told her as his hands massaged her ankles and calves. “But I can’t even walk into the room without wanting to take you. Every inch of you is sexy and good, Natasha.”

She wondered if she would ever stop waiting for them to get caught, for the world to find out and pull everything so carefully crafted apart to pieces. She pushed the thoughts back down and glanced over at him.

“I think you have a pregnancy fetish," She challenged, teasing him but with that underlying suggestion that there had to be a logical reason he loved her so. He looked up, as if mulling it over.

“I think I have a you-fetish, Natasha.”

The simplicity of it made her laugh, because he was so damn nonchalant and earnest. “Even when I look like a cow and dress like a grandfather?”

“Especially now, Natasha.” He said it with all seriousness. “Besides, is that pregnancy thing even a thing?”

She pulled her feet off his lap before leaning in to kiss him, pulling his hands to either side of her swollen form. She decided to actively choose, again, to focus on all that was right and safe. Today, right now, they had quiet. As he smiled into her mouth, she decided to accept their allowance at some peace. They both deserved it, earned it. She couldn’t wrap her head around any other way. All she could do was roll the dice, knowing he’d be with her no matter what happened.

“I love you, Steve Rogers,” she promised again, believing he loved her and letting that be enough.

 


	7. The least explicit time/Contingencies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So after I finished the 5, I thought I was done. And after 6, I thought I was done. And then I heard "Small Bump" by Ed Sheeran on Pandora. So I wrote this and I feel like I am done, because I am really intimidated about diving into what it would be like to describe the Avengers. But I say it and then think about this ship like all freaking day. So who knows. All I have to offer is heart eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 100% convinced on some of my Spanish (my own, not google's), especially because Chilean Spanish has a unique and special style that I can only hope to capture. Also, thank you to all for not picking out the grammar things about my things that drive me bonkers when I troll over my work days later.

**7**

 

 _“Y tienen ustedes un plan para el parto?”_ The doctor glanced up from her clipboard.

Natasha looked over at Steve, who had been sitting next to the exam table, holding her hand. A plan for the birth of the baby. It was something Natasha had only lightly considered, preferring to tuck it away in her mind for a later time. Thinking about delivery made it real and even though Natasha knew logically that they were running out of time, a part of her was still in denial. She couldn’t fathom all that came with being someone’s mother, being with a child, _her child_.

“Have we talked about what we want to do for the birth?” She repeated it out loud, because even though Steve was a quick learner, a part of her still felt like she knew more Spanish, like she still had at least one superior skill left.

“We need a plan? Doesn’t he just come out?” Steve wrinkled his face, glancing between her and the doctor. Natasha shrugged because she’d been thinking the same thing.

 _“Si…”_ the doctor continued on, “ _pero usted y su esposa deben considerer las contigencias_.”

A contingency plan. A just-in-case. The possibility of anything going wrong and Natasha felt lightheaded. Steve squeezed her hand. He’d seen enough loss to know that shoes often do drop and that they needed to be realistic. The truth was that they hadn’t even really talked about what to do after the birth, not about the baby or their own future. While other couples thumbed through parenting magazines and talked about what the baby would look like or topics like breastfeeding and baby-proofing the home, Steve and Natasha had intentionally stayed focused on the present. They talked about each other and occasionally safe memories from the past, so that Natasha knew that Steve’s favorite memory of his mother was when she had given him a set of tinker toys for Christmas one year when he was sure the holiday had been canceled. (And Steve had learned that Natasha had never owned a stuffed toy, something he had fixed immediately so that she already had a set of bears sitting on their dresser). Their present plans focused on dinner, what to watch on TV, whether or not going outside for a walk was a reasonable idea, and how much training Steve would let Natasha do before his overprotective instincts kicked in.

“What do we need to do?” Natasha asked and the doctor smiled as she prepped the ultrasound. She discussed the option of a scheduled delivery versus leaving it up to nature, a talk she had no doubt reviewed with countless patients. She lectured them against home delivery and explained what they needed to do if they decided to look for a _matrona,_ a midwife who could assist them in the clinic on the big day.

Natasha hoped Steve had been listening because as the doctor talked, she found herself only able to think about those unforeseen events. The irrational part of her mind prayed that nothing would happen, and her heart raced as she considered the value of the tiny person that had entered her life with equal parts complications and unwelcome change and hope and promise. The ultrasound gel on her belly brought her back to the present and she found herself squeezing Steve’s hand back.

The heartbeat, still a muffled _whooshing_ that presented clear and consistent. He had a strong heart, something that gave them both pride, especially after they had reflected on family history when filling out forms. They were still crossing their fingers about how much of Steve’s pre-serum health would pass through. Natasha had no idea what to expect from her side, except for the possibility of red hair.

“What can we do to prevent contingencies?” She asked.

“Prayer” The doctor said in clear English without even looking over, making notes to herself as she ran the Doppler over Natasha’s pelvis. “You and your husband should pray”.

“We both work better when we have a plan”, Steve explained, not bothering to correct her on the assumption of their marriage. It had been another thing that they were actively avoiding. Natasha had spent late hours pacing through back pain or a muscle spasm, rehearsing what she would say in the event that he brought it up. She assumed her pattern would be to decline, to remind him that she was the absolute best case for single parenting. It was a lie, because she herself had asked him to stay, had confessed her dependency. They were going to be parents together. It was easier to imagine partnering with Steve for as long as she was breathing than to imagine the responsibility of the minutiae of a baby.

The doctor indulged them, explaining the different scenarios that could affect both mother and baby. In many ways, the couple very much resembled most first-time parents. She deduced that the child, unplanned, had brought them together and chose to accept their basic explanation that they were American ex-patriots in Chile for the husband’s business. Whatever kind of business it was, the doctor figured the less she knew the better. Most first-time parents never really understood what they were getting into. They typically fell into two camps, the couple who planned every single detail and micromanaged up to what kind of gloves the doctor wore in delivery, and then the couple who showed up and hoped for the best. Though the blond mother-to-be who considered her answers before every single response was good at following directions and had maintained good health for herself and the child, history was ripe with examples of parents who did everything and were still unprepared for disaster. She suspected things would be fine but said prayers of her own to Saint Teresa and Saint Gerard that everything would be easy and without incident.

On the cab ride home, Natasha reclined into him and pushed her ear against his chest, counting the beats as they compared to the baby’s. There was so much that they didn’t know. Problems with the umbilical cord or cervical fluid, problems with the baby’s heart or other organs. The possibilities that she had refused to consider only because the pregnancy itself was still fighting to gain credibility even as her bladder and rib cage felt daily abuse.

“I feel like I’m fighting through fog” he whispered. “I’ve had to do that before, in the war.”

She looked up at him. For once, they were on the same page, neither able to put into words the sense of powerlessness.

“I guess that’s the first lesson of parenting. You can’t be the man with the plan all the time.” She whispered, feeling glum.

He kissed her head in response. Even though he was good at directing in combat, life had proven time and time again that he was far from omniscient. _Contingencies._ He could think of thousands, none ending well. Even if they had access to money and power and even magic, they would never fully outrun danger. It weighed on him, reminding him of all he had already lost. Steve could close his eyes and feel his hands grasping at air as Bucky fell, the wind whipping on his face as the train sped down the track. It had been goddamn cold, probably rivaling the Andes mountains. No matter how many times he replayed it, he should have been quicker or tried harder to reach out. And here he was again. If he could map it all out, he and Natasha would still have to gamble on being faster, smarter, or having the resources.

“Come on, let’s go get something to eat” she patted his arm, her heart pulling as his face shadowed in thought. She thoughtfully rubbed her belly and did her best to send psychic murmurs to her son. _We are freaking out over nothing, aren’t we, Zhuchok? You seem pretty good down there to me._ Her stomach responded with even, rhythmic pops. Hiccups.

He helped her out of the cab and held her hand as they trudged up the stairs to their apartment, noticing that though she looked bigger, she still maintained an impressive amount of energy. Inside, they moved silently and in sync, able to work with and around each other after the time spent in their voluntary banishment. She took off her coat and gloves before turning the stove on while he set the table. There was a container of leftover stew in the fridge, perfect for the day and their moods. _Grey, cold, full of doubt._

As they ate, she reflected on the choices that they had made, and again on whether or not it had been entirely realistic to believe they would ever fully be alone. The security was certainly a false one. Not only could they count on being watched, she reasoned, but certainly everyone knew about the pregnancy. She hadn’t seen eyes but they’d surely been there.

“Did you ever hear the story about the Uruguayan soccer team that crashed into the mountains back there?” she nodded her head towards the window as she took a bite of potato. He looked up from his bowl and shook his head. Her absorption of the language and culture was one of his most favorite things, something that he knew she had used on missions, which had surely saved her life at least a few times.

“They lived in the snow for two months. The original manifest had forty-five but only sixteen lived. You can imagine how the survived for two months.”

He could but he chose to let her continue the story, marveling at how stone-faced she could be, licking her spoon as she spoke.

“Cannibalism. They didn’t have rations and nothing grows so high up, so they had to eat their dead.” Her eyes met his, giving him that look of confidence and conviction that he hadn’t seen in a while but that he realized he had missed.

“Is there a moral to this story?” He asked, reaching for her hand. She squeezed it with the accompanied sarcastic smirk that had been sort of a trademark for her.

“I mean. I don’t think any of the survivors were women. Make what you want out of that.” She smirked and grabbed a piece of bread from the center of the table. “Though it also does make me wonder if maybe we should get out of the fucking snow”.

Steve chuckled ruefully. “Contingencies?”

“Steve. You know I want to stay. I want to stay and give birth here. The literal last thing I want is to share any of this with the world.”

He sat back in his chair. The _but_ was obvious. They could pretend things would be okay. Statistically, everything was in their favor. But even with the best care and prevention, their odds got better when they added the medical expertise and money they had left behind in the States. Having friends in high places had benefits.

“Do you want to think about it?” He asked because he wanted to give her the choice, partly so he didn’t have to make it. This was their space. Their pocket. When they pulled the trigger, he doubted it would be possible to just go back. And he didn’t want to go back. Here, she was his completely.

She looked outside again. She’d be lying if she didn’t miss working, if she didn’t miss the adrenaline, the feel of her muscles pulling and stretching past their limits. She’d left because she was burnt out, the weight of all her mistakes and the neverending chase. Chile had been her retreat, the first she had truly taken ever. It was good. She could feel her brain making connections about love and attachment that had just been missing, never formed.

And yet. The feel of steel in her hands as she pulled the trigger or the coolness of the garrot around her wrist. The way her mind blocked everything out as she made it through a mission, not stopping to give a fuck about anyone in the way, the exhilaration of completing a directive. Those moments. The ones she feared she had lost forever. The ones that made her feel _alive_ , maybe more than the best sex with Steve.

 _Those small moments_.

“I don’t know.” She shook her head as she collected their bowls and put them in the sink. He stood up and walked over to her and she had the urge to brush that bit of blonde from his eyes. He caught her wrist as she reached up but she held her gasp in, her eyes meeting his with resolve.

“Natasha…” he said her name as a warning, because he could feel the charge of whatever changes were going to happen thick in the air. An afternoon of ambivalence with the chance of fucking was not something he was necessarily in the mood for.

“Marry me.” She challenged, not sure of what she was asking for until she’d let the words free.

He stepped back, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed as he processed it, the small bomb she’d dropped. God, if she wasn’t excellent at playing with every single one of those little fantasies he’d always ever had. It was the story of their relationship together. Marriage. The logical, moral thing to do. Every possible answer to what should have been the simplest question chugged through his mind.

“Steve”, she touched his cheek with her hand. “Contingencies.”

“Natasha… I’m not a back-up plan. _We_ aren’t a back-up plan.” He felt his face burn, an old and buried indignance-slash-insecurity bubbling underneath the surface.

“I’m not saying that. I’m not saying I’m settling or whatever you think I’m saying.” She tightened her face in defense. “I’m saying that in the case of unforeseeable events, I need you unequivocally _there_. That there is no contingency with this pregnancy in which I can’t count on you. Either something happens to the baby or something happens to me.”

Her hand dropped to his waist and she pulled him as close as she could bearing in mind the bowling ball of their child’s shape, and he knew her eyes were searching his, that his refusal to outright answer the question was hurting her. He would be with her no matter what, even if she did ever finally decide to shut down and flee, and so it wasn’t that they even needed the ceremony. He could rationalize the need for it. Legal reasons, just for starters.

Natasha regretted it when she saw that he was holding back. It had been a stupid question and even out of character for her. Something selfish and indulgent, and hadn’t she already had enough of that. She had earned his heart, it had been enough without her being greedy. The nerves of her lower spine tingled until she felt numbness travel down her left leg, and she had to sit down.

He watched her clutch her back and shuffle over to the kitchen table, and the sight of it all was like a tiny hammer to his heart. He imagined his life, the way it should have been, that he should have been the one to propose, and that this really should have been fifty or so years ago with a different woman and Bucky at his side. He could go back further if he wanted, to maybe that his dad should have stayed home instead of going to fight in Germany. Or maybe his mom should have found another man or something to get them out of the ghetto they called home. He hung his head and replayed all of the “shoulds”he had missed. _Should have talked to Peggy. Should have caught Bucky. Should have looked harder or said something different._

He could hear her, deep and even inhales and exhales as she ran her hands over her belly, over their son. The boy was already a strong kicker, active, measuring well. Any regrets he had were enveloped with pride. It was worth sharing and a piece of him wanted the whole world to know how amazing and incredible it really was. Like a magnet, he was drawn to her and to all that she had given him and was asking for.

Natasha gave him a tired smile as he knelt in front of her and rested his head against _them_. A favorite position for all, the three of them fitting together like an unbreakable puzzle.

“You think he’ll have my hair?” she murmured, her hands stroking his hair, his shoulders, his neck.

“Dunno.” He sighed, imagining he could still hear the heartbeat. It reminded him of how he’d always pushed seashells against his ear as a kid, the echo of the ocean exciting and magical. “I guess he won’t be brown-eyed though”.

“Well. I want him to have your ears though” she teased, “mine stick out more than I’d like”.

“What?” he looked at her, feigning shock. “Natasha, I love your ears.”

“You are a horrible liar, Steve”. She touched her ears and laughed, ignoring the heaviness of what they weren’t discussing.

He reached up to touch them over her fingers. “Really. I think I love them most of all.”

She rolled her eyes.”I know that is a lie.”

He smiled but shook his head. “No way. I swear it.”

“So you like my ears more than my tits?” she raised an eyebrow, knowing she had caught him. He puffed out his chest as he sighed, admitting defeat.

“Well. I am partial to those too.”

“Well, you might have to share them soon, you know…”she leaned in to kiss him, before motioning that she needed to stand up. He groaned just a little, though he had to laugh inside at the irony of a breastfeeding master assassin. He stood up to let her pass and watched as she disappeared into the bedroom. He could hear her humming as he rinsed their dishes. There were a lot of things he’d had to suspend belief for, and he supposed a maternal Black Widow who hummed Russian lullabies and kissed scraped knees might not be so farfetched after all.

He puttered around the kitchen for awhile, not really sure if he wanted to go into the bedroom to face her, not really sure why it was so hard. He stood in the doorframe and watched her, perched on the bed, her hands rubbing some fancy lotion that she’d found in town over her legs. She still had those thick fuzzy socks on, he mused, maybe to match her sweater. Her pants were discarded on the floor, he noted as he folded his arms, and he wondered if she’d done that on purpose.

Natasha looked up at him as she massaged the cocoa butter into her thigh. “I itch. All. Over.” She explained with frustration. “ _Manteca de cacao_. Supposed to take away stretch marks and keep things nice. But I have a feeling this ship has sailed.”

He walked over and sat at her feet. “Do you realize that if you looked in the dictionary for the definition of asshole, you would see my face?”

She stopped what she was doing to look up at him, in question as to what it would take for Captain America to say a swear. “What?”

“Asshole. I’m an asshole.” He said it again as he looked from his hands on his lap to her eyes. “Yes, Natasha. Yes. Jesus Christ, Yes.”

Natasha laughed when he said it, her brain connecting his words together in a string that didn’t make sense. “What?”

He pulled her legs onto his lap and grabbed her hands, greasy and slick. “Yes. I will marry you. I’m an asshole for not jumping at the chance and I’m sure you’ve changed your mind…”

She shook her head, her throat suddenly closing and those damned pregnancy hormones surging through her body. “Steve. I haven’t changed my mind. I… I love you. And I consider myself an authority on assholes. You are only minimally an asshole…”

His face flushed and he leaned into kiss her, needing to taste her because he wasn’t sure he’d be able to breathe otherwise. She smiled into his mouth, her arms wrapping around his neck, and all he could do was repeat the same one-syllable word in his mind, _yes._

“You are kind of a bastard, though” she mumbled playfully as she bit his lip. He nodded in agreement, allowing himself to smile back as he lay down with her atop their comforter. They lay on their sides, face to face, and kissed slowly, and every once in awhile someone would stop to stare. It felt cheesy and beautiful to Natasha, but she could feel herself relax, could feel a sense of hope in the way he looked at her. No matter what happened, he would be there.

“It’s weird” he whispered, touching her cheek. “I guess I supposed I would ask a girl’s father first if this ever happened.”

Natasha ran her foot up his leg. “I know.”

They held eachother’s hands and talked quietly, rationally, about the best way to go about things, deciding quick and dirty at the courthouse would be best.

“Might as well re-enter civilization with a bang”. She said it as she played with the button to his pants. “A baby and a bride, Rogers. Man, you are a legend.”

He laughed, taking cues from her to run fingers along her exposed thigh. “I guess so”.

She sat up and pulled her sweater off, allowing him sight of her breasts, heavy in a way that only pushed at the animal side of his brain. They’d asked earlier if they could continue having sex and the doctor had just laughed, only reminding him to make sure to _calentar el horno_ first. Natasha had laughed so hard she had nearly peed her pants, and he was sure he’d turned as red as a tomato, but they hadn’t stopped making love, taking the doctor’s advice as a benediction.

She helped him out of his clothes with care, making sure to fold everything while still keeping her gaze on his. Only Steve could make her feel like this part of herself hadn’t died, something she said prayers of thanks for even though she didn’t really believe in religion. She knelt beside him, fingers traveling to her underwear, staying firmly on the waistband as if to tease him.

He pulled her back down and they kissed more, his hands working on muscle memory as they explored her breasts, cupped her ass, drew circles on her back. She gave sighs of contentment, reaching to touch him too, knowing the places she could go to make him go faster when she needed it.

“What’s on the menu for today?” she kissed his shoulder, her thighs rubbing together in anticipation. Their choices felt limited as they baby took up more real estate, but she was on a mission to find new ways to cause him to stammer. He helped her turn around and pulled her close so that she was snug against him, and she sighed as he kissed her shoulder blades because she was sure she wouldn’t complain.

She felt him, hot against her skin. How was this her life, getting married. Not just getting married, but married to a 95 year old super soldier. He used skilled fingers to stroke all of the right places and she felt a smug satisfaction. He might only know those places in reference to her. The thought of being not only the one who had taught him all he knew but then effectively ruined him for anyone else made her heart race. She slid her panties down, suddenly in a hurry to claim him in as many ways as she could.

He felt her grow as anxious and impatient as always. Deciding her oven was preheated enough, _thankyouverymuch doctor_ , he guided himself inside. She sucked in a breath, moving to adjust herself, and he grabbed her hips possessively _._ She might think she’d taken everything and won the ultimate prize but he didn’t consider his gains so far off either. Her game was seduction. He knew she’d been with more men then he would ever want to know, and that she’d been intimate with a few men he did know. But she was his. It was an antiquated and animalistic thought, he knew, to imagine that she had finally met her match and that maybe there was something in her that he had changed. As she gripped the blanket, her body shivering against him, he decided he didn’t care. She was going to be his wife. _Fuck contingencies._

It was one of the few times they came together quietly and she was sure she was vibrating against him. All of the plans they would have to make. Natasha could feel time slipping through their fingers. When they set in motion the plan to return, it would happen fast. Everything would happen fast.

She leaned back to kiss him, feeling suddenly grateful for all of the wounds, the scars, the stitches, the slammed doors. She knew what those things were. So did he. They couldn’t plan for everything but the sum is greater than the parts. They couldn’t protect this tiny person, really not from much at all if she allowed herself to fantasize about the big picture, but any shot they had at breaking through cycles and barriers and the bad guys that would eventually come in some shape or form, were exponentially greater now.

Steve rested a hand on her stomach as his breathing stilled and she mused about just how unprepared they were for the small earthquake about to rattle their lives. She thought about their wounds, a few shared but mostly carried individually, and how they’d been able to nurse each other through some of those. And then, her thoughts drifted in tune with the sounds of their neighborhood, a sacred little piece of town that they would have to leave just out of logic and grown-up responsibility for a third party more precious and vulnerable than both of them combined. It felt like a new directive, carving out something safe for their legacy, and she wondered if maybe she’d been preparing for it for her entire life. As if maybe she had been programmed to shut out parts of her heart or denied access to emotions and feelings so that she could fight unflinchingly for those things when the time came.

 


	8. The get-me-to-the-church-on time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I've been sitting on this idea for a few weeks and had a paragraph or two started. But I was so hoping to write it all down after I finished the other fic I'm working on. Until something about that fic made me want to pull my hair out. After a tumblr meltdown of negative self-talk, I opened this fic up. It was a wonderful way to spend a Sunday. this chapter is the fluffiest I am capable of. I make no apologies and freely admit being in love with a fictional character.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as an Ode to yvonne228, who was instrumental in helping me choose who the witnesses should be. It was a welcome challenge. My concern is that my Tony and Clint aren't right. But it's my Tony and Clint, after all. Also, a bit dialogue heavy. But again, I'm sticking my tongue out at myself for criticizing myself. 
> 
> Will put translations at the end but "estan todos?" basically means "is the gang all here?"

**8**

 

“You know what _Santiago_ means, right?”

Steve looked up from the buttons on his shirt to see her standing in the doorway, her hands preoccupied with the pearls she was fastening to her ears.

“It’s biblical. For Saint James.”

It had been easier to keep a long list of names that they wouldn’t even consider. _Larry. Blake. Chad. Anthony. (“Sorry, not sorry,” she’d said after they had vetoed that one.)_ It was a name full of meaning and significance, maybe obviously, but Steve had held back in even suggesting it. _James_.

“You don’t care that it’s biblical,” he met her eyes, hoping to communicate the sarcasm more than the sadness.

“True,” she nodded in agreement before walking over to straighten his tie. “I don’t.”

“And it’s very traditional. That’s not really you, either,” he slid his arm around her waist, pulling her in as closely as he could.

She looked up at him, her eyes squinting. “Well, I guess I’m more traditional than I thought.”

He looked her over. She’d spent days searching for the right dress, not wanting “to look like a tent” ( _her words, not his_ ). He had told her truthfully, that she didn’t really need to worry about it, but that had only earned him a ( _thankfully soft_ ) punch in the arm.

 _I know I don’t act like it, but I would like to have something typical,_ she huffed. He didn’t dare tell her that it was probably bad luck to go shopping with her for her wedding dress.

Only the day before, she’d managed to find something in the right shade of white, a sapphire-colored sash around her waist that highlighted his point about traditions perfectly. He hadn't been able to breathe when she had exited the dressing room, holding her hair up with one hand because she was always hot now.

Watching her look at herself in the mirror, watching her visualize a moment he knew she had never even considered having, he was damn grateful she’d pulled him around town to go shopping. Maybe traditions were not really his thing either.

And now, touching the ribbon around her waist, wanting to pull it as if to unwrap her, he considered the possibility of maybe being late.

They had arranged an early evening appointment with a philandering civil officer who had agreed to pull some strings and ignore the three month wait.

_(He remembered bickering with her the entire way to “meet” the man in charge of officiating, because using torture and manipulation seemed awfully drastic and rules are rules, after all. She had given him a look he had learned over the past few months meant that his opinion didn’t really matter. And, in the end, creating loopholes had been fairly easy, only about five minutes of their day. Natasha had gleefully retained some power of persuasion even in the third trimester._

_“How did you know he was cheating on his wife?” he remembered asking her as he led her out of the (now sobbing) officer’s quarters._

_“His wife and his girlfriend are both in my prenatal pilates class,” she raised a self-satisfied eyebrow and kissed his nose._

_The sex after that little meeting had been amazing._

“We can’t be late for this. Honestly. You have to wait, Steve.” She swatted at him as he leaned in to kiss her neck, hands doing their best to pull her dress up.

“I’m never late,” he smiled, “and, God, you are so worth it.”

She let a shiver escape and he smiled into her skin, calculating how much she was probably considering it.

“Seriously. No. We can’t be late for our own wedding. I don’t ask for many things, Rogers…”

“I know, I know,” he complained. Maybe actually whined.

Natasha pulled back and ran her hands along his shoulders, wiping away invisible lint. He noticed the wicked glint in her eye as her fingers tickled the nape of his neck, a sign of only good things to come. “You are a patient man, Steve. I think you can handle this wait.”

He spun her around and held her tight, “Are you sure you still want to do this?”

“Come on, Captain, let’s get this shotgun wedding over with. I’ve got plans for later,” she teased.

“Shotgun? Does that mean you are only doing this because of the baby?” he groaned, taking the bait. She pushed her back against him in a way that nearly caused his heart to stop beating.

“Well, that weapon in your pocket certainly helps with the negotiations.”

“You are killing me,” he whispered into her skin. She rocked against him and he could feel her resolve falter.

“How fast can you be? You think you can do it in three?”

“Minutes?”

She reached behind to tug at his zipper. “Starting now."

“Well, the serum…”

“I’m counting on it,” she grunted, lifting her dress up.

He gave himself a second just to appreciate the view before fitting himself against her. She grabbed onto the dresser for support, her breath ragged and small Russian curses tumbling from her lips.

“Natasha, I love you…” He told her as he slid inside her, the heat of her bringing to mind swears of his own that he fought to keep inside. He waited for a smart response or a sharp reminder that he had only thirty seconds left. She shuddered instead, only letting out a low _shhhhhhh_.

If time had only permitted, he would have been content to stay right there, inside her as deep as he could go in the way he knew she liked, her pussy like a wet glove that he knew he fit perfectly. He pulled out just a little, just enough, before filling her again, doing his best to match pace and intensity in a way that got them both to the finish line in time.

 _“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…”_ he whispered as she flexed against him.

“ _Close_ ”, she whimpered.

And then someone knocked at the door to their apartment.

“Honest to God, guys! Really?” someone called out in English.

“Don’t you dare fucking stop,” Natasha warned. Steve laughed into her shoulder.

“We’re going to be late,” he reminded her, reaching under her dress to search for the point of pressure that would cause her to speak in tongues if pushed right.

“Nat, you told me to make sure you guys weren’t late!” the knocking started up again, just a little louder. “Do I have to pick the locks and hose the two of you down?”

“Coming!” she yelled out.

“You are?” Steve mumbled, grinning into her skin.

“Aren’t you?” she purred, “I have to hand it to you, Rogers. I never thought you’d be the guy who would fuck the bride before she got to the church.”

“We aren’t getting married in a church.”

“And you aren’t thinking about me standing up there with the memory of this literally leaking out of me…”

He hadn’t been until she brought it up, but the thought of it was enough to push him over the edge, a low groan falling from his lips as he poured himself into her.

“K, we are leaving. You all can do whatever you want but the last time I had to wait for sex, it was because the girl underneath me had to catch her breath,” a different voice called out.

Steve furrowed his brow as he pulled away. “You didn’t finish.”

She looked at him, smiling as she smoothed out her dress and ran her fingers through her hair.

“You’ll make it up to me later.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded with all seriousness, pulling at his clothes to put everything back in order. “For the rest of our lives.”

“Did you say something?” she called out from the closet as she pulled a pair of flats out of the closet.

He motioned her close and grabbed her hand, kissing her fingers and running a hand over her belly.

“Just said I'm ready to go.”

Natasha nodded to the door, “Let’s go then. The children are waiting.”

“I heard that!” the door yelled.

Steve opened the lock to a very frustrated pair of grown men standing at either side of the staircase down, arms folded.

“You two ready or do we need to call the priest and ask for another time?” one of the men shook his head, his dark eyes betraying an amusement that he was trying unsuccessfully to hide.

“They aren’t getting married at a church, Stark,” the other one said in a tired tone.

“A temple? Mazeltov? A beach wedding? If so, I’m wearing the wrong suit…”

“Come on, boys.” Natasha sighed, grabbing a shawl from the hook next to the door. “Clint, couldn’t you have at least dragged him to get a haircut? You both look like you could’ve used one.”

“We didn’t have time,” he shrugged as both men patted their hair. “The bachelor party ran into the late hours.”

“There was a bachelor party?” Steve asked as he laced his fingers through Natasha’s hand, guiding her down the steps. (As top heavy as she was, the doctor had warned against falls, a warning Natasha pretended to ignore most days).

“You weren’t invited,” Tony Stark shrugged, hands in pockets.

“But I’m the bachelor…”

“Yeah but you don’t drink. Or anything remotely fun as needed for the occasion,” Clint Barton reasoned.

“Right. Would have been a waste of perfectly good pisco. Which reminds me. Barton, where did you go after those body shots?”

“Body shots? Gross.” Natasha wrinkled her face. “I’m pretty sure we had fun on our own anyway.”

“Now that is a story we don’t need to hear.” Clint shook his head and put his hands over his ears.

“Right. Little ears, perverts. Little ears.” Tony motioned to Natasha’s belly. “If he hasn’t already been traumatized by the constant poking. Jesus Christ, Steve. Kid has to have brain damage by now…”

“Tony…” Steve looked over his shoulder, instantly regretting their choice to tell the team and agree to anyone coming down at all. They’d done it just to set the wheels in motion for the trip back, with the plans to go back to the states in the day or so after the ceremony. Having Stark along meant use of his plane, Natasha had reasoned. And it was the closest to anyone from Steve’s own past. He imagined Howard standing next to Tony, something that made him feel good.

“I’m talking about all the fucking,” Tony whispered loudly.

“Tony,” Natasha said in an even tone, “I will hurt you if you piss me off on my wedding day.”

“She’s right,” Clint agreed. “And plus the stress could lead to early labor.”

“Seriously? I don’t think I want baby juice all over my car, guys…”

Steve sighed and held his tongue as they approached the car, remembering that any further comments would only wind their guest up more.

“Seriously, guys. I just bought the Rolls yesterday. No babies,” Stark whined as he sat down and buckled his seatbelt.

“Ready, everyone?” Clint asked as if making one last call for anyone to change their mind, turning the ignition on before anyone could answer.

***

“Estan todos?” the officer asked, a bead of sweat on his brow and eyes wider than sanddollars.

They sat side by side at his desk, with their adolescent witnesses behind them, not really sure what to expect. Natasha shot a warning glare at the boys, who had already traded jabs at the officer’s expense. One of the reasons that they had negotiated inviting two team members at all was because they needed two witnesses.

“Nat, did you hurt the priest?” Clint whispered. The short man with dark-hair shifted in his chair and swallowed nervously, not put anything at ease by the way Tony looked at him.

“He’s not a priest,” Steve answered before Natasha could open her mouth.

“He’s also not a science experiment. Tony, behave or else.” She added, leaning into Steve’s arm so that she could send him warning messages that she hoped communicated her seriousness.

“You know, I resent that. I am the least threatening person here. And also, I’d like to remind everyone that we are in a court of law. The Widow can’t wobble over here and hurt me in a courthouse.”

“Did he just… _wobble_?” Steve stiffened. Natasha reached up to brush her fingertips against his clenched jaw.

“Hey,” she smiled and put his hand on her stomach. Ripples of movement stirred under the heat of his palm. “I love you.”

 **“** Wait, is this in Spanish?” Tony chirped.

***

Natasha sighed, content to again rest her feet on her husband’s lap as the small group collected their thoughts in the living room. They hadn’t planned any post-wedding events, much to Tony’s disappointment, because the thought of doing anything except soaking in the last moments of their tiny apartment seemed exhausting.

“I don’t understand. This doesn’t even feel like a real wedding. Did you guys even exchange vows? I only picked up like three words during that whole show.”

She flashed him and long and newly-ringed finger, switching it with the middle one for emphasis. “Tony, we don’t need a party. Least of all because it’s not safe to draw attention.”

“Don’t get mad at me. I’ve been pretty accommodating. We only found out about this whole undercover operation you two have had going a week ago.”

“That’s not entirely true…” Clint said slowly.

“Really? Why am I the last to know?”

Natasha glanced at Steve, whose face was stuck in a toothy grin while he watched the entire conversation. If she didn’t know better, he looked downright drunk.

“And why don’t we have any food? Or anything to drink? We should be singing fucking “Guantanamera” with a band of mariachis right now.”

Natasha ignored all of it so that she could lean forward to kiss her partner again. Her partner. God if they hadn’t gone ahead and made it official.

“You good?” she reached around to his waist, pulling herself so that she was nearly sitting on him. He wrapped his arms around her.

“Just waiting to wake up. Just trying to let this whole day sink in.” he smiled shyly. “Kind of pinching myself.”

“And what is this baby spider going to be called anyway?” Tony asked before Clint could punch him in the arm.

“Come on, Stark. Let’s go get some food and let these guys have a moment.”

“Yeah well, we might as well take our time. Cap has a pregnancy fetish.”

Natasha laughed, noting the way that Steve’s cheeks reddened at the memory of their own joke. “I think you have it wrong, Tony. I have an old man fetish.”

“Natasha,” Tony let Clint pull him out of his chair and toward the door. “Fifty percent of me wants to hear more about this…”

“Bye, gentlemen,” Steve interrupted.

“I mean, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wasn’t fascinated about all of the myths I’ve heard about how pregnant women are more sexually sensitive…” He added, ducking to avoid Natasha’s shoes as he slipped out the door.

Natasha exhaled, certain she could hear rambling outside. She played with the buttons on Steve’s shirt, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I heard you earlier,” she whispered as she worked on the top button.

“Hmmm?” he rubbed her calve, his fingers tickling around the hemline.

“I heard you. Before, when you said you said you’d make it up to me for the rest of our lives.”

“Yeah, I said that, didn’t I?”

“Big promise…” she teased, working down another and another, slipping her hand under his shirt.

“I have a list of them I plan on keeping.”

“I guess I have some of those too…” her voice trailed in faux-forgetfulness.

He chuckled. “Yeah, well, I’d sit here and stare at that ring on your finger if I didn’t think you wouldn’t kick me.”

“You’ll do it why I’m asleep anyway, Rogers,” she shrugged, stealing a glance at her hand. He nodded in agreement.

***

“Since we are admitting things,” he mumbled as he divided attention between breasts, amazed yet again by the contrast of her skin on his, the way she seemed created to fit him so perfectly.

“You are going to make a confession with your dick out?” Natasha raised her eyebrows, though at that particular moment she was sure he could tell her he was actually half-unicorn and she wouldn’t care. They’d managed to make it to the bed and even to put a chair under the doorknob in case the boys came home.

“Yeah,” he tickled her. “Yeah, I guess so.”

She pulled herself up to rest on her elbows, telling herself to keep as straight a face as possible.

“I didn’t give all of my vows. At the office,” he explained, propping himself up on one arm by her side.

Natasha sighed, “You are so apple pie sweet sometimes, Steve.”

“Wait. It’s important,” he smiled, picking up her hand and holding it close. “Remember that poetry you told me a few months ago?”

“Yeah. Neruda. I read him a lot when it was just me and the baby.”

“Well… I memorized one of his poems,” he said with notes of excitement and self-satisfaction.

She could feel her own cheeks burning for a change. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“Can I?” he asked. She sat up, holding his gaze, waiting for him to start.

“Just don’t tease me for my accent,” he explained.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” She rolled her eyes.

He smiled and recited the poem , a sonnet about flowers and stones and loving in secret. Natasha knew the poem and had read it many times herself. In a past life, she would have rolled her eyes at the saccharine sweetness of all of it. Earnest, just like him.

“ _Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,”_ he pushed the words into her skin with kisses along her arms. “ _Te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo_.”

Natasha wiped at the tears on her cheek when he finished. “Goddammit, Steve, even your Spanish is perfect.”

“I’m sure it’s totally about how wonderful you are in bed,” he teased, even though he knew every line and its meaning and had been praying it to himself every night since he discovered the poem over a month earlier.

She curled up against him, feeling for his heartbeat. “Steve, it was amazing.”

“I shall tell my wife, I picked up a lot of the intonation from her.”

“Oh, Steve Rogers. Is that gonna be a thing? Where we pretend that I’m not and you pretend not to tell her? Because I am so good at pretending.”

“If you want to,” he ran his hands along her ass.

“I’ll never leave, you know.” She whispered, planting a kiss on his chest.

“I know.” He held her tight. “And I’ll never not believe you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and Gentlemen, recite this puppy and panties will drop. I'm not even kidding. 
> 
> Spanish first  
> ~Soneto XVII~  
> No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio  
> o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:  
> te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,  
> secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
> 
> Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva  
> dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,  
> y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo  
> el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.
> 
> Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,  
> te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:  
> así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
> 
> sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,  
> tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,  
> tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.
> 
> English:  
> ~Sonnet XVII~  
> I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,  
> or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:  
> I love you as one loves certain obscure things,  
> secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
> 
> I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries  
> the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,  
> and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose  
> from the earth lives dimly in my body.
> 
> I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,  
> I love you directly without problems or pride:  
> I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,
> 
> except in this form in which I am not nor are you,  
> so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,  
> so close that your eyes close with my dreams.


	9. The time in which we learn about those contingencies...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written as I started the tenth week of my second (high-risk) pregnancy. No explicit sex in this chapter, but a wonderfully personal chapter nonetheless. Something I'd been thinking of for months but no energy to write. I'm glad I could. Lots of fluff. Probably fair to issue a trigger-warning for whatever kind of triggers one might need about babies and deliveries (eeeeeeee!!).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to anyone who reads this and who provides me the grace for grammar mistakes and characterization issues. It is, after all, my story and my own projections and such.

**9**

“So are you guys contractually obligated to have Banner deliver the baby?” Clint asked as they boarded the plane.

“I didn’t think he was that kind of doctor…” Steve answered over Natasha, who was easing into the seat next to him (aisle because of her need to pee every five minutes lately). He resisted the urge to ask if she needed anything, maintaining a careful if not casual glance on her calm expression and the swell of their child as she settled and started on her seatbelt. Apparently,  he "hovered."

The unspoken stress and even sadness at leaving their little home, the little country that had served them during their exile, had made them both sensitive. He knew that a part of her was afraid, just as he was, for the changes about to take place in their lives. The little earthquake of having a baby. One small blessing in packing was that they had actually started talking about it, about how in the world they would care for a family when their home life was unstable as it was. He watched as she folded up shawls she’d collected or wrapped up the vase their doctor had gifted them as a wedding present. The unspoken conflict had been “Are we creating a house of cards? Will we ever have the kind of quiet we had here?”

Getting married, “making an honest woman out of her,” had changed things only slightly. Now there was official proof that neither one of them were leaving, at least not willingly. It had meant more to him than he’d expected, when she rested her shoulder on his or when she touched his cheek as he kissed her in the morning. She was his. They hadn’t discussed it but he fantasized about whether or not she’d take his name, even just for formal documents and fancy invitations from people who wanted them to dress up and show up to take photographs.

_Mr. and Mrs. Steve Rogers._

_Mrs. Natasha Rogers._

She’d probably knock him on his ass if he ever said that out loud.

As he watched her look past him to the green grass that covered the fields behind the airstrip, he felt her ambivalence about returning. He remembered a neighbor telling them, “You’ll be back. When God made the world, he saved all of the best parts from each place and put them into Chile.”

Natasha had smiled and nodded, something in her expression communicating that she didn’t think they would be. But Steve promised her, and himself, that they would return one day. It wasn’t an empty promise but he knew it would be a long time. The truth, he knew, was that she needed to get back to work. She needed to feel useful, if only because the fight that had burned her out and caused her to run in the first place was the same fight that she thrived on.

Even if they loved the peace and quiet, they both needed the energy and the chaos. And the team needed them. With the world in the state that it was in, any amount of time longer than necessary felt selfish.

“Alright, I guess we should go over some safety rules,” Tony said as he walked down the aisle to pass out champagne flutes. “Pretty much just no mile-high sex. You can’t do that if you don’t own the plane…”

“Tony, that wasn’t really necessary…” Steve groaned, watching with a side eye as his wife gave a quiet smile to herself, her hand doing the ritualistic rubbing of her belly that had become habit over the past couple of months. The truth was that they probably would have ignored Tony’s rules if she wasn’t as big as she was.

“You know, Rogers, I would have assumed so. But seeing as how the two of you are fucking just about every other minute…”

“Sir, I think we are about ready to depart…” their pilot announced from the cockpit.

“Seriously. It’s breakfast, let’s go find something to eat. Oh no, we can’t because you two are in the back room being way too loud.”

“Tony…” Clint admonished, giving him a sharp look as he took his drink.

“Let’s go drive around the coastline and find a place that sells you pisco sours on the beach. Oh wait, Steve and Natasha are having a “moment” in my car…”

“How old are you? Five?” Steve interrupted.

“Just keep it in your pants until we get home. And no babies either,” Tony pointed his finger at them before sitting down and buckling his seatbelt.

“Baby isn’t coming yet,” Natasha announced, reaching over to squeeze Steve’s hand as he gripped the armrest. It was another thing that they had only recently talked about. Birth plans. Changes to birth plan after the decision to leave was finalized.

Technically, no flying after thirty-six weeks.

They were in their thirty-eighth week.

_“It’s not a big deal,” Natasha had assured him when they’d had time to talk about it on the cab ride home from their last doctor’s appointment. “They only have that rule in place to avoid lawsuits.”_

_“Are you sure this isn’t because of the change in cabin pressure or something?” He’d asked, because it would have given them the excuse to stay for just a month or so longer._

_Natasha shook her head. “No, we need to have the baby in the States. What if something goes wrong?”_

_“What if something goes wrong while we are in the air, Natasha,” he met her eyes, hoping to telepathically tell her that if anything happened… “Contigencies.”_

_“Nothing will happen. Most women don’t even deliver until they are well past their due date.”_

Steve had let it drop but he knew she was thinking about it as the plane rolled down the runway. They were due for a long flight. Thirteen hours just to get to Miami for a quick fuel stop. In his own quiet research, he had already made a mental checklist of all of the things he wanted to check on while they were in the air. _Make sure the mother is hydrated. Make sure she walks around to avoid blood clots._

“You ok?” Natasha asked as the plane picked up speed.

He looked over and smiled, wanting to touch the wisp of red that fell to her face. She’d dyed her hair again, leaving the blonde in Los Andes along with the pretenses and covers and hiding who they were. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.

“How is my son?” he asked, diverting the question. Even if she didn’t like it, it was impossible for him to turn off any concern about how everything might affect the baby. Cabin pressure. Turbulence. The sound of Tony talking about science.

“Wiggly. I guess he’s excited because I’ve been telling him about that pizza place down the street from the tower. I’ve been craving it for about a week now.”

“We can go and pick something up as soon as we get…”

“Home,” she finished his sentence. “It feels unnatural to say it but it’s by definition true.”

He nodded and covered her hand with his so that they were both projecting as much warmth as possible to the life growing inside of her. “Home” had been a foreign concept for both of them until Chile. He felt a small shred of guilt at not being able to give that to her or their family, not on a permanent and consistent basis. She put her other hand over his and he caught the glint of the small diamond in her wedding ring, a merciful reminder that while they didn’t have the picket fences and charm of a cozy little house with a yard to teach his son how to play catch in, they still had something.

The plane reached a safe altitude for everyone to unbuckle their seatbelts and Natasha stood up to stretch, offering him the best possible view of her backside as she reached into the sky. She caught his eye and smirked.

“Keep it in your pants, Rogers,” she whispered, mimicking the plane’s owner.

“Just enjoying the view of my wife. That’s not illegal,” he said as he reclined his chair, mentally wondering if it counted as “mile high” if he at least kept his pants on. Surely there had to be a blanket somewhere…

Natasha laughed and crooked her head towards the front of the plane. Tony, resting with an eye-mask and headphones and Clint playing a game on his phone. Neither was paying attention and he knew they could probably pull something off.

“Don’t even think about it, guys,” he heard Clint’s voice, even as the archer maintained focus on his device.

***

“I’ve got to go to the bathroom. Again,” she huffed, reaching for the seat in front of her so that she could stand. Steve opened his eyes and gave her a sympathetic nod because he knew there wasn’t really a whole lot else anyone could do. They were flying over the Pacific, maybe only about four hours in, and he figured it was an announcement she’d make over and over.

The cabin had been darkened to match the sky outside, making it harder for him to see the water. He didn’t know if that was better or worse, not being able to see anything except the black of the night sky and the plane’s wings. Even though things were different, he supposed a part of him would always flashback to the sight of the grey water, strangely still as he nosedived the plane into its’ temporary cradle. Not only because of the cool air in the cabin, he felt himself shiver. _Muscle memory._

Listening for his wife, he surveyed the plane quickly, everyone calm and still. Everything as it was supposed to be. Safe. And back on solid ground before they knew it.

He wondered if they’d set up in his place or hers, or if there was some way they’d be able to find a third, neutral place. They didn’t need much space. He could remember Bucky’s sisters as babies- all they did was sleep and cry and chew on things. A lot like puppies. At least in the beginning, he figured they just needed a place for the child to sleep, though he figured Natasha also probably had plans. “Nesting,” according to the internet, though when he’d asked her if she felt any more maternal than before she shook her head.

_“I don’t know,” she’d responded. “I mean, I’m kind of worried about a lot of the things that I don’t know. I don’t think I know how to change a diaper. I don’t think I’d be all that great at decorating a nursery.”_

_“Do we even need a nursery?” he had asked, sliding into bed next to her. “I mean, we didn’t really have that stuff when I was a kid…”_

_“Well. I mean, he needs a place to sleep. And we need our own space,” she’d sighed, her face logical and straight. “And I suppose we need at least some of that baby stuff. A stroller. A carseat…”_

_“A few toys…” he added, pulling her close. “Bucky’s little sister had a rattle that she used to gum all the time…”_

_“I’m sure we have time to pick all of that stuff out when we get to New York.”_

_“I wish we didn’t have to wait so long. I wish you could have kept the crib we had here,” he kissed her hair, remembering the white crib she’d surprised him with when they’d met up in the capital. She hummed and shifted so that she was facing him, an arm tucked under her head. God, she was so lovely. Whether in some fancy nightgown he knew she’d purchased just for him or in an old sweatshirt, his body was unable to discriminate._

_“Cribs are just pieces of wood, Steve. I can get a new one. I think I only had it because Senora Carrasco was so pushy.”_

_“I’m glad you at least saved the pillow,” he admitted, wondering if maybe he was nesting more than her._

_As if reading his thoughts, she’d responded by pressing her lips against his. “I can’t prepare a room for him yet but I think I’m creating a home in other ways.”_

_“How?” he mumbled, opening his mouth so that her tongue could slip in._

_“Well, I suppose marrying the baby’s father is a pretty big step. Home is where the heart is and all that…” She explained after she’d kissed him long enough to make him feel dizzy._

_“Home is where the heart is?” he’d repeated, fishing for her to explain only because he loved hearing her tell him. She laughed, something shaky and emotional in the sound, before wrapping her legs around him so that he was below her, the weight of her stomach getting heavier and heavier each time she did such a move._

_“You know you have my heart,” she rolled her eyes playfully, rocking her body gently against his cock, which had definitely decided to join the party and which was certainly straining through his pajama pants in such a way that he couldn’t even pretend to hide it._

_Even as he was reaching up to hold her hips, he was meeting her eyes for the extra confirmation. “Are you sure, Natasha? You didn’t look so convincing just now.”_

_She tugged on his shirt, pulling him so that he was sitting up, his face close to hers as she dug her heels into the mattress. Resting her arms on his shoulders, she met him with a glance he knew meant business, and he used all possible methods of mental restraint to keep from bucking his hips into her._

_“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true,” she whispered, her face even more pale with the moonlight that peeked through their bedroom window. “You have my heart. You are my home.”_

“Steve,” he heard her whisper, something barely audible against the constant roar of the plane. She was standing in the aisle, her face pale and her ringed hand running circles around her stomach.

“Natasha, what’s going on?” he whispered back, moving his chair back to the upright position.

“Water…” she croaked. He reached for the water bottle underneath her chair.

“Here. Are you ok?”

“No,” she shook her head, grabbing his hand and pushing it against her legs. “ _Water. Here. Everywhere.”_

And then he realized what she was trying to communicate. It wasn’t thirst but rather the fact that her pants were drenched with what he knew just by looking at her face, was definitely amniotic fluid.

“Jesus Christ,” he leapt out of his chair towards her, “Jesus Christ and all the Saints, when did this happen?”

“Just now,” she trembled, “I was in the bathroom washing my hands when I heard a pop like someone cracking their knuckles and then it wouldn’t stop.”

“Natasha…” he put his hand over her stomach, “We’ve got to wake everyone up. We have to land..”

“Where? The Pacific? I don’t know if we have time,” she said through clenched teeth before grabbing his shoulder and squeezing, her head down as a hiss of air escaped her lips.

“What happened?” he held her elbow, trying his best to keep a calm voice. He wondered briefly if it hadn’t been a small miracle that they both had so much experience with high-pressure situations and masking the adrenaline that he knew was coursing through her as much as it was through him.

“Contraction, I think,” she grimaced, before leaning against him, her head burrowing into his arm.

He kissed her head and walked her to the front aisle, past their sleeping teammates, so that she would have space to put her feet up. Even as he kept the straight face, he couldn’t help the thoughts that raced through his mind. The alarm bells and the feeling that once again, there was really nothing he could do.

Except that he wasn’t going to sit by and let anything happen, to either of them. Looking over as she gave a small whimper, her hands clenched into fists, Steve recognized that neither of them really could know how much time he had to stand to the side instead of making some decisions and doing whatever he could.

“Ok. I’m going to get you some blankets and I’m tell everyone what’s going on. We’ll just take this one step at a time,” he whispered in his best Captain’s voice, meeting her eyes and hoping that she could feel that he was there and that he wouldn’t leave her. She nodded and exhaled, putting her own game face on, as though the trail of sweat developing on her brow wasn’t an indicator that something was wrong.

“How much time do we have?” Clint asked when Steve explained that Natasha was in the front of the plane, definitely going into labor. “Can we land somewhere?”

“Can you talk to the pilot while I talk to Tony?” Steve motioned towards the cockpit, suddenly very grateful that Clint and Tony had come down, grateful for Clint’s cool headed response, grateful he had extra hands and heads to help with whatever was needed.

“Yeah, of course,” he nodded.

Tony, to his surprise, hadn’t been as hard as he would have thought.

“A baby. On my plane…” he squinted, looking over to where Natasha was sitting. “Alright, let’s go. If it’s born on the plane, you have to name it Tony though…”

Steve shook his head, remembering that this had been one name they’d crossed off the list, “how about we talk about that later, when Natasha isn’t in labor, ok?”

Tony opened his mouth but shut it, instead pushing a button to alert his computers, the front of the cabin lighting up with blue print, diagrams, and pictures and video of women in the hospital at various stages of delivery.

“Tony…” Steve said with an open-mouth even as Clint walked through the computer projections, his own expression one of confusion.

“I had JARVIS put together some stuff on babies and deliveries and what to do…”

“Seriously?” Clint asked as he knelt down, undoubtedly to face Natasha. Steve crossed his arms.

“Yeah, because I figured that even when I said ‘no babies’, this kid wouldn’t listen,” he shrugged. “By the way, JARVIS, can you give us some light and do a scan on Miss Romanoff and the baby.”

Which was how all three men and one omnipresent AI managed to calmly work together in creating a makeshift bed on the floor the airplane, (with no one daring to question why Tony had thought to plan for contingencies but had decided on bringing one of the smaller- and noticeably bed-less planes to South America). It was like living in a movie, Natasha leaning into Steve, Clint handing her water while Tony researched a plan of attack, JARVIS’s even tone a surreal narration to all of it.

“Sir, heartbeat and blood pressure for mother and child are registering within acceptable ranges but Miss Romanoff is having contractions every seven-point-four-five minutes…”

“Which means what,” Steve asked as she clutched his hand, her eyes wide.

“It means that he’s coming,” Natasha breathed, still ashen.

“Sir, it is advisable that someone retrieve the first aid supplies. Miss Romanoff will need to remove her pants…”

“For crying out loud,” she huffed as she shimmied out of her soaked clothes, accepting the blanket from Clint, who was definitely looking at the ceiling.

“This brings up a good point, though,” Tony added as he reached for a bottle of tequila that had been placed amongst the gauze and bandages in the first aid box.

“Because who is going to catch this thing? I don’t know if either of us-“ followed by an exaggerated gesture to suggest he and Clint- “would be in position to see Captain America’s wife’s parts in that kind of angry state…”

“Or any state,” she retorted, a low moan interrupting any further discussion because who could say anything when she looked like she was dying on the floor with each contraction?

“It’s not something I haven’t seen before…” Clint raised an eyebrow cautiously. Steve winced, hearing the confirmation to something he’d had an idea of for as long as he’d known them, only because he knew they had worked together, knew of the history they shared, knew that Clint had been the first one to bring her out of the chains of the Red Room. He’d seen in when they’d fought in New York, the kind of intimacy and unspoken communication that suggested something deeper than just professional respect.

“Whoa, you and Romanoff?” Tony coughed, opening the bottle to take a gulp. “Seriously, how do I never know about these things.”

“No,” Natasha shook her head, “No, Tony’s right. I want Steve there.”

He didn’t question her outright, but she caught the uncertainty in his eyes. Her fingers tracing his jawline, Natasha explained, “You’re my husband, Steve. You have my heart and the baby has yours. I don’t want anyone else responsible for whatever might happen.”

Steve nodded and kissed her, grateful and scared and feeling as though his heart would explode. The slight dip of the plane as they hit a patch of slight turbulence pulled him back to the present, where he knew her logic made sense.

So Clint took Steve’s place as Natasha’s head rest, a calloused hand rubbing her shoulder with the kind of gentleness and comfort that came from having a history as partners, once-lovers, and friends, while Steve repositioned himself at her knees, his hands absentmindedly caressing her bare legs.

“Ok, now that we’ve sorted out the soap opera that almost ended in Captain America punching Hawkeye whilst standing over a pregnant Black Widow…” Tony chimed in, “I think we need to deliver this puppy…”

Steve looked over at Natasha, her hair dark with sweat and her face calmer than it should be, before lifting the red blanket that had been shielding her lower half.

“It is estimated that the mother is completely dialated, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS filled the cabin with his voice, “You will start to see the head of your son very soon.”

“Holy shit,” Tony whispered soberly.

“Miss Romanoff, it is acceptable for you to push. Sir, your assistance would be beneficial as all of the supplies needed to cut the umbilical cord will need to be readily within reach.”

“Motherfucking Jarvis. Did you know it would be Jarvis and not Banner delivering your baby?” Clint cursed. Natasha responded by digging her nails into his arm, her eyes rolled back into her head as another contraction passed.

“Hey!” he pulled his arm back.

“Shut up, I feel everything,” she moaned, reaching with her other hand for Steve.

“Is it okay? Can you see anything? Am I bleeding? God, I’m sorry you have to see this,” she whimpered in-between gasps and labored breathing.

“I think it’s fine, Natasha,” he smiled gently, squeezing her hand before looking down again.

He didn’t know what he would have expected. He’d seen internet pictures and watched a few dozen movies, enough to be surprised that she wasn’t screaming promises to hate him for getting her pregnant in the first place, so the sight of something hard and round peeking out had been a small shock.

“Hair, he has hair…” he mumbled, afraid to touch her or do anything to make things worse.

“Captain Rogers, it is best if you are able to guide the head…” JARVIS said as gently as he supposed the AI could.

“And that is why I drink,” he heard Tony say as he reached tentatively for the crown, slippery and warm to the touch.

“Shut up or I will hunt you down and hurt you,” Natasha hissed and then she was nearly growling, an almost bear-like moan that seemed bigger than her body, and Clint was whispering in her ear and smoothing the hair on her forehead, something Steve didn’t have the mental space to consider because he knew that it meant another contraction. She was bearing down and then he was able to register the head of his son in his hands, followed quickly by the shoulders and then everything else as gravity did its job.

The room fell silent except for the sound of Natasha, panting and maybe sobbing, though no one would dare acknowledge it. Of course, until any silence was broken by a high-pitched wail, the unmistakeable sound of an infant announcing his arrival into the world.

“God, Natasha,” he sighed, surveying the pink skin as he pulled their child into his arms, fluid and blood covering his clothes. He looked down at tiny fists and tiny eyes, shut tight as a tiny mouth screamed for comfort.

“Steve…” she called out. Using one of the other blankets they’d pulled out of the storage closet, he wrapped up his son as best as he could, minding the umbilical cord that was still attached and tugging on his wife. He heard JARVIS announce the time of birth and registered that Clint had moved over, could hear Clint and Tony discussing something about fluid and placenta.

All that he really could think about was her face as he brought the baby to her, the sight of relief and exhaustion and _joy_ as she cradled their son in her arms. And then he was behind her again, reclaiming his spot as the place where she rested as she cried and cooed and marveled at the baby’s fingers. He felt the tension in her body drain even as the newborn rooted around for the bare skin of her chest, his mouth finding what it was looking for in her nipple.

This, he recognized, was not the Natasha Romanoff that anyone would have ever expected. A Natasha that traced her son’s soft, fuzzy head and ears while wiping at tears with the back of her hand. This Natasha was quite frankly not supposed to happen, perhaps the greatest indicator of the Red Room’s failure.

“He’s perfect,” she whispered, looking up, meeting his eyes with her own.

Steve agreed but found he couldn’t talk, the truth of it stealing away any capacity for words. He was perfect. Strong and colored well, not at all like Steve knew he probably looked when he himself was born. And he wanted to give him everything, wanted to give them both all that he had in that moment, the reality of that he had a family and that Natasha had given it to him something more than he had ever thought possible. All he could do was kiss her, again and again, and then reach down to kiss those little fingers that clutched Natasha’s breast. The baby’s eyelids fluttered closed as he sucked, perhaps a mirror to the kind of peace and relief that Steve felt. Born. Born safe and sound and totally innocent to anything that might happen.

“So does this mean he’s not American?” he heard Tony ask.

“What are we calling him?” Clint questioned right after.

“We hadn’t decided,” Steve answered, his attention focused completely on the miracle before them. He ached for his ma to have seen this one, probably the single most positive sign he’d ever seen to prove the existence of God.

“James,” Natasha announced, repeating it again as she stroked her son’s head. “It’s the only name that makes sense.”

Oh how he loved her then. Loved her unwaveringly, and with the same certainty she had in naming their son. Loved her as a fact, in past, present, and future tenses, and as the only thing that was logical and made sense for his own life. Home and heart and all of the poetry about belonging wherever Natasha was, it was all so much truer when he was holding _them_ , a visceral image forever burned into his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Round of applause to Jarvis, the mid-wife. I hope I wrote that all sufficiently. If not, meh. Side note, google says baby is born "at sea" but I *think* he'd be a U.S. citizen. I also read that it depends on the rules of whoever's airspace they were flying over.


End file.
